A week of firsts.

So, after ripping my first pair of pants, I realised this week has been an accumulation of new experiences.

I ate my first muscle. Not a fan. Texture of rubber and you can see the organs and gross.

I went to my first Halloween party, and ended up looking after drunk boys the whole night. (Though the looking-after part isn't exactly new, I was doing it in a leopard costume. That counts.)

I ate a punnet of blueberries. I don't even like blueberries. Well, I thought I didn't. I do now. In particular, the hard ones - they're tart and a bit sour and amazing - the soft ones are weird but have the nostalgic aftertaste of blue slush-puppy.

For the first time ever, I played PlayStation 3, and didn't suck. I recall a number of occasions when my guy friends tried to teach me FIFA, and even after exchanging remotes (is that the right term?) at half time, they would double-beat me.

Grand Theft Auto, thought to be a senseless game of stealing cars, running over prostitues and stealing their money, is actually a game of skill and patience. I legitimately completed some of Vlad and Roger's tasks, and finally got Michelle to go on a date with me (I asked if I could come upstairs, but she said no, so we made out instead.) My host-brother found all these codes on the internet, so now I also have a number of helicopters, Corvettes, FBI vehicles, weapons, and other things at my immediate disposal.

This was my first week in which I went out for dinner EVERY NIGHT. My host-parents are absolute social butterflies, and are always occupied with this advocate or this golf-friend or this plastic surgeon. I have eaten about the mass of an elephant this week. Beata me.

I did Krav Magah for the first time this week. My physical education teacher got these 3 boys from the gym down the road to come do a few lessons with us in personal defence. Despite the fact that 2 out of 3 were INSANELY good-looking and just climbing all over each other for demonstrations, it was surprisingly enjoyable.

At one point, one of them had his hands around my neck to demonstrate one of the tactics, and I kind of just stood there. #embarrassing. Also because I was sweating like a woman in labour.  (Do woman in labour sweat? First image that came to mind.)

Also perhaps the first week I've ever done anything productive at school. I volunteered (maybe stupidly) to do a history project, and now another teacher requested that I do a presentation on Apartheid for the class above mine. Most of the time, I do un cazzo at school, so not the end of the world.

This past week was also the first time I could say "I'm going home next month." That was exciting, and probably the highlight of the week of firsts.

Love and light x

Where beginnings end and endings begin.

With the end of holidays, the re-starting of school (vom), came the arrival and first meeting of the 'newbies'.

"newbie": (common noun) (informal) The affectionate nickname used to refer to the student/s (collective) who arrive approximately 6 months after the previous bunch of students. (See "oldie")

"oldie": (common noun) (informal) The affectionate nickname used to refer to the student/s (collective) who arrived approximately 6 months prior to the proceeding group of students.

Understood?

Some of the 'newbies' challenged the actual terminology, paired with swearing and judgements and ruuuudeness.

Anyway, we went to an orientation meeting / conference in Monterosso, in Liguria, where I stayed for a month back in July/August. With 55 students, 3 districts, 5 oldies, it was a lot to take in, but being with the exchange students in a group is always bound to bring laughter, often to the point of tears, breaking of the rules, hiding out after curfew on some hill (I don't even know how this happened), ridiculous videos, and hilarious memories.

Although welcoming the newbies was easy, especially considering those from our district were easily-likeable and frankly awesome people, but it made me miss our oldies all the more.

We organised for a group of us to meet up in Como on Saturday for a picnic. I don't know if any of the readers recall a certain verbally abusive phonecall I received from a certain Rotarian woman a few months back, telling me how terrible my Italian was, that I never followed the rules...etc?

Funny story.

My friend received a phonecall, but because he is not yet used to the language, he passed the phone over to me to play translator. After speaking for about 20 seconds, the woman complimented my Italian, and asked with whom she was speaking. On hearing my name, I could actually hear her embarassment over the telephone. "Aaaah, la Megan!" My insides tickled with fancy at the thought of me proving her wrong. UP YOURS, YOU BITCH. After explaining the district rules to her over the phone, and detailing how we were 100% compliant to these rules by travelling within our district, I could hear her self-indulged little bubbles exploding inside of her. Love karma.

So we returned to our non-alcoholic beers on the grass and had a wonderful day of foot-skating, catching up and photog.

With my ticket booked for home less that 2 months away, my excitement is not containable. Although first, a slight ambivalence, I am going to have to approach my host-parents about the next few weeks becoming more socially orientated than waste-of-time-at-school orientated. I hope they will be receptive knowing how little time I have left.

Until next time.

Long time coming...

Alriiiiiighty. Seeing as my last post was in May, I realise I have a lot to catch you all up on – a daunting task, to say the least. Having to look through my photographs, organised by month, to even recall what events of significance happened and when, is a good indication of how much has happened in the past 5 months. (Feel free to rouse through my photo albums at your own leisure, my Facebook photos are public. http://www.facebook.com/#!/meg.davidson.528)

I am struggling to conceptualize how to compose a single blog post that contains all that has happened recently, so I thought that perhaps the best mode of moving forward would be to do a short reflection on all the places I had been in each month, followed by a personal reflection of the summer as whole.

JUNE: I left school a few days early and made my way to London for the wedding of a dear family friend. Marly, somebody I consider to be a second mother, is one my own mom’s childhood friends, and her husband, David, best friends with my mom’s siblings, too, growing up. Their whole family has always been part of our lives, their son, Michael (groom), having come to Cape Town for a year during his medical studies, and other son Justin having joined us even in France on a family trip back in 2007. Also, they introduced me to teriyaki chicken sushi. MY GOD. Proper the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten in my life. EVER.

Although the wedding was the primary reason for my visit, I was absolutely dying, ‘plutzing’ if you will, for a piece of home – family, Judaism, English, and some loving. I was welcomed with open arms by my mom’s first cousin, Steve, and his family. Let me tell you something about Sir Steven Carson –not only are his accent-impersonations and Xhosa-jokes unparalled, but he has a heart big enough for everybody who deserves a place.

I was so fortunate to be able to see two of my friends from back home, Kate and Nicky, both calling England their home this year – needless to say, we made Strawberry Moon jugs our bitches. I also saw my friend Ari from JHB, took him to an Italian restaurant and showed off my skills, yielding free limoncello. Yes, Meggi-Jean, you go girl.

I absolutely love London – the pace, the people, the accent (ti prego) and the general friendliness. Having come from northern Italy, where the people are notoriously “Germanic”, should we say, being greeted in London with smiles and affection was a complete change, and I accepted without hesitation.

I did, however, falter on my return – 1) having become re-accustomed to being treated as an adult, having been given the liberty and responsibility to return home when I pleased, to go when and where, with whom I wished. 2) Having experienced again what it was like to be with family and friends – a comfort I did not even realize how much I missed – knowing that I would not receive the same treatment back in Italy.

On my return from London, I got to see a good friend of mine, Daniel, from SA. Although our time was short, it was again lovely to have another little taste of home. (Don’t read into that too much.)

JULY: Something I was looking forward to since the day I left home – reuniting with my best friend, Gabriella Nadine Stein <3. We took ourselves off to Lido di Jesolo, by suggestion of one of my Italian friends, with the preconception of it being a bit of shithole (by suggestion of another of my Italian friends.) Listen, our accommodation was shabby, to be generous – ONE PLUG in the entire room (a serious problem for two 18 year-old, 21^st century girls like us) with BlackBerries and iPods and hair straighteners and the likes and NO fan/air-conditioner (a sin in 40 degree heat). A shower that was just… Christ, I don’t even know. I can’t even describe to you how useless it was. One of 2 absolutely retarded showers. The other in our hostel in Milan would run for 15 seconds on the push of a button, and then stop. So you stood there, pressing pressingpressingpress… AURGH. Frustrating. Anyway, we were together, and we were ecstatic. We discovered a night-bus that ran 10pm – 6am, for 5 euro in a hop-on-hop-off capacity. WHAT A BLOODY TOWN. We partied night in, night out, never returning before sunrise. Batting off the boys, donning the flats, and waving around South-African banknotes to prove our identity. (yes, that is us dancing on stage at 0:16 - 0:18 - TOTAL YOLO moment.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ya9-mR-zw40

After 3 days of that, we bussed into Venezia, eventually found our B&B (excluding breakfast, would you believe) in a tiny little side street, not shown on the map. Having been before, we ventured together to the touristy places: Rialto Bridge, asking for people to take repeated photos of us, Piazza San Marco, watching orchestras do performances outside their respective restaurants, the Jewish Quarter, feeling awks in little shorts and singlets in the BOILING heat, and pointing out all the chabadniks, because we can.

Having been told that Venice is seriously lacking the jol, Gabi and I made it our mission to just go out one night and make friends. We immediately came across a bunch of okes from The States, Australia and New Zealand, and how did I start the conversation, you ask? Well, it makes things very easy when they’re carrying around 2l bottles of Coca-Cola in mano, HONING of whiskey. These boys, of mixed ages and hotness, were a group of unicyclists, yes, the one-wheeled ones, on a tour. LOL. Unicyclists. Anyway, they were great fun. Make friends mission: complete.

That week with Gabi is something I will never forget – in fact, I opened my cross-word book today and found her neat, left-handed calligraphy had filled in one of the harder ones. I miss her every day, and can’t wait to make more memories and have more travels with her.

AUGUST: In August, I was invited to attend a Rotary-organised camp for the short-term exchange students based in Sarzana – a little town near La Spezia (in the region of Liguria, near Tuscany). Being the only one on long-term, and the only one who could speak Italian and English understandably, I was elected translator. Through this, and just my aura of awesome, I ended up making some incredible friends with the Roter-act students (those after high-school – 30 years of age). I consider the friends I made in Liguria to be among my closest friends I have ever had.

My host-family in Sarzana was the first host-family I’ve ever felt REALLY close to, like a real part of the family. After the end of the two-week camp, they actually invited me to stay another two weeks. I was sincerely distraught to say goodbye to them, but we have maintained a relationship, and I hope to see them very soon J

I’m not sure if it’s the ocean or the tap-water, but the people in Liguria and the people of Bergamo are a different species. I feel a bit like a stranger in my own skin in Bergamo, whereas the people in Liguria feel a bit like Cape Tonians – chilled out, friendly, attentive and willing to compromise.

The group that arrived for the camp was like a bag of mixed nuts: (not in an allergy sense, in the sense that they’re all different, but all crazy. Maybe I took the analogy a bit far.) Two from England, one from Belgium, Turkey, Israel, Taiwan, South-Africa (that would be me), and one from the Czech Republic – each one was an irreplaceable facet of the group.

The places I was exposed to were truly unbelievable – the cinque terre, a recommended bucket-list addition for every person on this Earth. Via dell’amore, I must admit I even shed a tear. Florence, Pisa, Spezia, Porto Venere… all places beautiful, and all filled with memories.

Another thing I have to admit was greatly appreciated with the clubbing scene – known to all as a lover of all things music and dance-orientated, I was so grateful for having the opportunity to go out with my friends on a close to nightly-basis to some of the most beautiful clubs I have ever seen.

SEPTEMBER: With the arrival of September, came the arrival of my parents. FINALLY. Although I knew it would be a bit of a struggle returning to my parents’ no-shit tolerance, I was so happy to have them. Although I tell mostly of the highlights of my year abroad, I have suffered some SERIOUS downs, and my parents have been there to encourage and coax me through at every crossroad, and I cannot ever fully explain my gratitude to them.

We met in Milan as per my request to meet the Rabbi and Rebbetzin Hazan – two people who have extended such kindness to me this year. On a relatively regular occasion, they have invited and hosted me with no question, fed me possibly the best combination of traditional Jewish, Italian-inspired food, and introduced me to some of the most incredible Jewish people from all over the world, with most of whom I remain in contact.

When my parents and I reflected on the Shabbos dinner from the previous evening at the Hazan’s home, I wasn’t surprised to hear that they understood how I could feel so close to them, how much they cared for and about me and my well-being, as well my Jewish enrichment.

We continued our travels together in a MONSTER of a car (like a sexy mini-bus) to visit my home-town and my second host-family. We then drove up to Lake Como. Living relatively near, I have been fortunate to have visited lake-side towns like Lecco, Bellagio and the likes. We stayed ON the lake, and made our way across for the 3 days with the ferry - truly one of the more beautiful areas of northern Italy. It just so happened that a friend from home, dearest Alon Bedell, was able to come visit for a night. Needless to say, parents loved him. We caught up for hours talking about the lack of memories from December-January holidays, and the news of those friends most dear to us on their travels or their varsity-lives.

Then, to Verona. I can say, with full confidence, that Verona is my favourite city (in a tourist capacity) in Italy. Firstly, and for me, probably the most importantly, the SHOPPING?! Holy mother. Paradise. The architecture and beauty of the actual city speaks for itself – so rich with history and each building with a story reaching centuries old. Juliette’s balcony, for example, almost as romantic as you could imagine (except for the abundance of Asians snapping piccies and the Germans toddling around in a sinful socks-and-sandals combo.)

We stayed in a home-cum-b&b in Valpolicella – one of the most famous wine regions of Italy. It was absolutely exquisite, and the woman who owned the residence was like a little fairy, running around in flowy clothes baking fresh bread and providing only the best advice and compliments.

We continued into Croatia – Mom driving, Meg choosing music, and dad guiding us with the Tom-Tom (forever mistaken.) The first two days were spend in Trogir – an island near Split (which we also went to visit). Although there is more to tell, I wish to skip forward two days, to going to fetch my sister from the airport in Dubrovnik – yes, I cried when I saw her, and no, I’m not ashamed to say so.

The Davidson-clan, reunited after 8 months.

We travelled together through Dubrovnik, Split, Hvar, Plitvice and then, returned back to the land of more expensive petrol and for me, at least, less strange language. (Croat, wtf?!)

Venezia again. This time for Rosh Hashans. We went to shul. That’s about the extent of what happened.

And then, I came back, without them, the following morning. Che palle.

So, that was my summer. If you have any questions, please go ahead and email me on meganjeandavidson@gmail.com and I’ll respond in my next post.

Thank you to all readers who have encouraged me to continue writing, even though sometimes I might be uninspired to update, it is cathartic for me too.

[I would like to dedicate this post to Brice Silbert, one of my peers at Herzlia, who suffered from Cystic Fibrosis and succumbed exactly a week ago to his illness. Rest in peace, Brice.]

Sending love and light.

Italian men.

When you think of Italian men, you think of this:

or this:

or maybe even this:

But, I have a very different experience of Italian men.

In the past week and a half, I have had FOUR incidences of some sort of serious sexual harassment.

1) I take a bus up to Citta Alta three times a week for my Italian lesson. I was sitting in a seat against the window when a 60 year old man (obviously unsure of his age, not the first question on my mind at the time) extended his arms to the bars on either side of me, so I couldn't exit. I had my earphones in, and ignored him, hoping he would just give up and go away. When I arrived at my stop, I attempted to get up, having to elbow him out my way, and he proceeded to block the door of the bus so I had to touch him again to get off. He, obviously with no previous intention, gets off at my stop and follows me, even at my quickened pace, under a tunnel that ends in a public piazza. I stopped dead in my tracks hoping he would just overtake me and leave me alone. Alas, he didn't. He stopped right next to me and passed some repulsive comment while I shouted, "LASCIAMI IN PACE!" (Leave me alone) so everyone in the piazza turned their heads and watched as he walked away from me with his sleazy tail between his legs.

2) I take the train regularly, to and from school, and most weekends when I go to Milan or Lecco. There is an unsaid train etiquette when it comes to seats that everybody is aware of. In each 'booth', there are 4 seats - 2 x 2 that face each other on each side of the train. You always opt to sit diagonally opposite to someone, rather than directly next to, or directly opposite - there is more space, there's no awkward "Where do I put my legs" problem, and there's no need for eye-contact. If there are free seats available in another booth, you take them.

I was on a train to Milan on Friday, and I took my place diagonally opposite a sweet-looking old man, and I was sitting on the aisle. Next to me (on the other side of the train, but maybe a metre away) sat a 30-ish year old man also sitting on the aisle, with NOBODY else sitting in his booth. I noticed him looking at me, even when I accidentally made eye-contact with him, he continued staring at me like I was a piece of meat. I ignored him, and looked out the window on my other side hoping he would just give up. He got out of his seat, and came to sit directly opposite me. He continued staring, more intently now, up and down my body. It was when he licked his lips that I uncrossed my legs in an attempt to get up and move away from him, that he opened his legs wide and stared at his crotch. I bolted for another set of seats so he couldn't see me anymore, and he MOVED so he could see me in the hole between the headrests.

3) On the metro yesterday morning, a cross-eyed, presumably homeless, man stared me down as I got on the metro, passed a comment, which I ignored. I walked away, not being able to change carriages in the metro, and he leaned forward in his seat and carried on looking at me. Luckily I only had 1 more stop at this point, and ran out of there.

4) The most dramatic, by far the most traumatising, experience I have had. A girlfriend and I were walking back from the synagogue on Sunday at about noon, on our way to the Rabbi and Rebbetzin's home for Shavuot lunch. The Rebbetzin, her two nieces and two daughters, her mother, and a few other guests walked at a slower pace about 20 metres behind us. As Loren and I talked and walked, I noticed a middle-aged man sitting on his bicycle about 10 metres ahead. I saw him looking at me, so as we approached, I diverted my eyes to the floor to avoid the eye-contact, and as my eyes descended, I noticed that he was legitimately masturbating while looking at me. His entire...um...pene e palle, were out in the open, broad daylight in the middle of a street in Milan. And it stared me straight in the eye. #scarredforlife
I SCREAMED (in English), adrenaline pumping, "ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING?!" and the sick bastard cycled away.

5) (I know I said 4, but another one happened since I began writing this post.) I was waiting for my train that was in ritardo this afternoon, and a 30-something year old man approached me and sat next to me on the bench. He asked if he could show me around the town, asked repeatedly if he could see me again, and kept on touching my leg with his track-marked arm. I don't date 30-year old drug-users. Thanks for the offer anyway, bro. He finally left me alone after the Portughese lady on my other side started making conversation with me about my theoretical boyfriend, like we were besties. Life-saver.

Listen, don't get me wrong. It's flattering when a guy hoots his horn (and no, that is not an analogy. I mean literally hooting the horn of his car) at you, assuming he is within a 15 year age difference (eliminating the 4 year olds, in my case) and not vulgar about it.

In the meantime, I need to buy myself some mace.

Come at me, bros.

Napoli, Casserta, Sorrento, Capri, Roma.

I see that the frequency of my posts are exponentially decreasing every month, and I cannot believe the pressure people have been putting on me to write - thank you for your support :)

Anyway, I'm not going to bore you with the usual topics of conversation. This entry is reserved solely for travel stories and pics.

A few weeks ago, I, along with 20-something (I think 22...not sure) of my exchange companions, ventured cross-boot-country to test out the notorious Nepolitan pizza (didn't happen - will explain later), the ruins, and the general Southern hospitality.

Leaving Milan at the crack of dawn and departing for Salerna, arriving in Naples and schlepping our shit (for some reason, I had the brilliant idea to share a large suitcase with a friend, thinking that it would make things easier for us. It didn't. Double the clothes = double the weight, FYI), to the baggage deposit of one of the ruins-sites surrounding Vesuvius (okes are too alternative for Pompei, apparently.) Regardless of the troubles, I got a glimpse of the ocean from the train and realised how much I actually missed the sea. I take it so for granted having a view of the ocean from my home.

So CIRCUMVESUVIUS it was. In all its lack of glory. We were ushered into a seafood restaurant on the second floor of a building, and all 27 of us were served by one 90-year-old man, who required to go down in the elevator to the kitchen to fetch the food, 2 plates at a time. Great start. At least we got wine.

After seeing the ruins, we trained (verb?) to Sorrento and I was absolutely blown away by the number of go(o)d-looking people. EVERYWHERE. And what an exquisite little city. One of the things I miss terribly about Cape Town is the never-ending 'vibe' - something indescribable, but you notice it when it's missing. The streets were pumping with busy, happy people.

When you get taken away on a heavily sponsored trip, you expect to eat dump food. Being surprised with a full hotel breakfast the following morning was the beginning of, what I think, was my favourite day. Of my life. Ever. (Start with pancakes, and you start with joy.)We walked to the dock and boarded a “ferry” (looked like a cargo-ship) and headed off to Capri. Despite first impressions, the cargo-ship was home to a casino and other such luxuries. Happiness.

Listen, I've never been to Greece, but I imagine that Capri is what Greece looks like. By far the most beautiful place I have ever seen in my entire life. Pictures to follow. Capri is famous for its attraction of celebrities, and pictures of George Clooney, Beyonce and Jay-Z, Ronaldo and Federer, were seen eating at various restaurants across the island.

We hiked down to a pebble beach with water as clear as can be, and ate an amazing lunch on the resturant deck that extends over the water.

The hike up was made bearable by the premise of lemon granita at the top - 3 weeks later, and I'm still thinking about how phenomenal that was. Our free time was aimed at "shopping", but unfortunately an exchange student's budget does not cover Salvatore Ferregamo or Prada. Instead, we wondered around aimlessly in awe of the beauty, looking for something more productive to do, when we smelt it. The most amazing smell I have ever smelt. A group of about 6 of us legitimately walked around with our noses in the air sniffing out the smell, which after 20 minutes, led us to a gelateria where the waffle cones, the source of the smell, were made as you ordered. Needless to say that was the most satisfying waffle cone ever.

We returned to our hotel in Sorrento, tanned and satisfied with a wonderful day.

The next day we were driven to Nerano, a pinnacle in Sorrento, and walked the Baia di Jeranto all the way down to the beach at the bottom. The terrain was quite rough and the hike exhausting but the views proved worth the discomfort.

When we got back to the centre, we were so exhausted, but were informed of our next tour - the wood museum. With sore calves and closing eyes, we slumped through the museum and managed to get excitement only from the wooden bed-frames - waiting hopefully for an offer to try it out. The offer never came.

After an hour of unproductive, gelato-filled (although that is always productive), we returned to our usual dinner spot - a restaurant off one of the main roads in the old city. After the meal, a handful of us were standing outside the restaurant getting some fresh air, and obviously talking very loudly. All of a sudden, a bucket of water was thrown over us from someone's balcony above us. We were open-mouthed, speechless, and sopping wet. No warning. No "shut-up". Just chuck a bucket of water on me. Thanks, bro.

We left Sorrento the following morning, and started the next leg of our trip in Casserta - the home to the Spanish King's paland (old king, obviously.) Definitely the best museum-esque tour we've had. An interesting tour guide who spoke in Italian we could understand and showed us things we thought were cool. After the tour, we had a picnic and free time in the king's garden 'round back. Just your average back yard.

We got on another train and headed for Rome. Now, the next 3 days are a bit confused, because there was a strike on the one day so we kind of mixed our itinerary around a bit.

Between the flashmob dance we did outside the Coloseum, to the race up the Spanish Steps, to getting our faces characatured in a Piazza, meeting and conversing with prostitutes on the streets, predending to throw coins in the Trevi Fountain, and rapping commercial songs in weird accents in public, we did all the normal touristy things. Maybe it was because our time was so short that I felt like Rome is incredibly overrated, but being with exchange friends made the time incredible. W

e boarded the train in Rome and headed back to Milan, sad to separate and say goodbye.

Overall, the trip has been the highlight of my exchange so far.

Public Transport Observations, Mussolini & The Seven Midgets

No excuses - I've been a bit lazy with posting the past few weeks. Let's address the FAQ's first.

I started official Italian lessons with a woman who teaches English to primary schoolers - so as a teacher, she is fully qualified to teach me, and does it well. I am able to hold a conversation, which I am proud of, but I am still stuck on future tense conjugations. My "I am there in 10 minutes" needs some tweaking, but I'll get there.

Current events? I had a picnic in Parko Sempione in Milan this arvo with some friends - we went to a supermarket and bought fresh baguettes, sundried tomatoes (the best EVER), roasted peppers and a tub of ice-cream and a fancy little lunch in the sun. Divine.

I was in Milan this weekend for a Rotary event - we in district 2040 and some others from district 2050 all met up in Cremona - the cultural centre for violins in the world. I am not going to lie, I was NOT looking forward to the museum-ridden day, but the fact that I was with the best company had me reeling in anticipation.

We arrived in a huge piazza to a crowd of cyclists protesting for the lack of bike-lanes in their street (if only this was South Africa's biggest problem.) The participants all had signs of some sort strapped to them, and one was very punny. I enjoy this.

 

The first museum was boring as poes. One of the students tripped over something and made a noise, and the tourguide said, "Ti faccio male" (Basically, I will hurt you.) Dick. So nothing special here. Although a man played some beautiful music for us. We were then taken to a private manufacturer of violins - a woman introduced herself as Yael Rosenblum (how much more Jewish can you get.)

Turns out the chick is one of the most famous violin makers in the world. Jol.

Having my driver’s license at home means having the option to go wherever I please, whenever I choose.

I can’t drive here, so am forced to take the public transport, which, unlike in Cape Town, is easy, safe, cheap, and clever.

I take a tram to the city centre, take buses all over, the funicular to the upper city, take trains to Milan, and the metropolitan underground in Milan…

Despite the advantages of having public transport, I have seen some dirty things. Dirty dirty gross vom yuck shudder. For example, the other day I saw a woman plucking her eyebrows on the tram. I mean, come on chicki, you have a mirror and a bathroom at home for that shit. No-one wants to breathe in your eyebrow hairs.

Not only dirty, but dirty and hilarious. Just yesterday I watched as a smelly bergie ran out one door of the metro train, and back inside through the door of the same train 2 metres away, and pretended to wave to someone, while slouching over like the hunchback of the metro-dame, and covering his face.

I have been so grossed out by things I have seen on the public transport that washing my hands has not only become routine, but almost a bit of an obsession. I keep hand-sanitiser and wet-wipes in my bag for this reason. The other day I saw a guy with terribly infected eyes rubbing and rubbing his eyes, then proceeded to the door of the tram where his hands basically made a baby with the hand-rail, and then the button to open the door. Needless to say, I try not to touch anything. I prefer to stand with my feet in a wide stance for balance, and falling into people, and apologising profusely. I’d rather not get some disgusting infection, thanks.

Besides germs, the public transport is also rife with people pathogens. Inconsiderate, rude, dirty, sleazy people. I had a terribly incident-filled day last week, where an old man not only reached out to touch my eyebrows on the funicular, but had the audacity to pat his lap as a gesture to sit down on him Bro, you’re like 65 years old hitting on an 18 year old girl. Someone arrest this guy please.

The same day, on the bus home from my Italian lesson, my backpack accidentally touched an old moustached woman sitting on the seat beside where I was standing. She legitimately SHOVED me away from her. It was a full bus. It couldn’t have been avoided. I am SORRY, you silly bitch. Go shave your moustache. But please not on the bus.

Taxi’s at home in Cape Town are a very frequent mode of transport for me - especially home from clubs late at night. I would generally pay R70 to get home, if I was alone, and that would be split if I was with friends in the taxi. The taxi’s here START at €6.20 (the equivalent of R70) and my friend Tish and I split a taxi for €40 the other night, after seeing Cyberpunkers and Belzebass at Bolgia (a famous club just outside Bergamo.) We paid €23 each to get inside, €10 each per drink (regardless of size or content). We each ended up spending about €60 that night. Goodbye to shopping this month L

While waiting for this taxi, we had a SUPER-drunk 14 year old approach us and ask for a cigarette. (We will get onto the smoking subject soon.) After repeatedly telling him neither of us had cigarettes, he starts this drunk-slur of a rant saying that this is Italy, this is Mussolini, and thus, we must have cigarettes. We didn’t. We ran to seek shelter with the car-guard, who did NOTHING to help us, but then… our saviour came from heaven. <3 Mauro. <3 This beautiful man approached us, shooed the kid away, and offered us help to call a taxi, and offered to wait with us until it arrived. He was a DJ at the club, and was just… wow. WOWOW. In my trou. Best part of the night.

The night, as usual, started with a visit to Sette Nani (According to my friend Fede, the Seven Midgets), from Bianca Neve (Snow White), our local bar hangout. We were driven to the club in Massimo’s car – something out of the Smurfs (iPuffy in Italian – I don’t understand why. Smurf isn’t even a real word). I was then exposed to what I think is the best thing Italians have brought to the music scene since ever. Fabri Fibra is the equivalent of the Italian Pitbull. His song “VIP in Trip” has taught me more Italian than my 3 weeks of lessons. Swear-words and judgements about prostitutes, more than anything, but vocab is vocab. 

Italian Carbohydrate Observations.

THE BREAD (Il pane): The best. My host-mom makes it fresh in her little machina - we get white, wholegrain, olive (my personal favourite), brown. muesli (but somehow I can't manage to find the stuff for breakfast??), fruity...the works. It's delicious. Served with every meal in a huge wooden bowl at the centre of the table to be cut (with a USELESS, unserated knife), but not in slices - rather, chunks.


On occasion, she will buy fresh rolls from the Esselunga bakery - my GOD, this bread is next level. Croccante on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside. And the FOCCACIA. I hate to break it to you - but the real Italian foccacia is unbeatable. I know that you think your local bakery makes it the best. It doesn't. Italian bakers do. Soz.


The main PROBLEM with this whole bread situation is the conservation of said crispyness and softness and fluffiness (or lack thereof). Italians have no concept of ziplock bags, or even just covering the breadbasket to keep the freshness in. So, basically, we have one day of amazing fresh bread, and then 3 days of stale, rock-hard, nostalgic-of-day-1 bread. Hence me eating about 3 rolls on day 1. Carbo-loading so I can avoid the stones the next few days.


Now, with bread, comes toast. I love me some toast. Toast with margerine and pickled gherkins. (Is that double pickled?)(Don't hate it till you try it.) Toast with flora and marmite. (Wow. I miss marmite.) Toast with anything really. (Except butter. Or fishpaste. Vom.)  Italians don't eat toast. Their equivalent is a "toastie" - basically a toasted cheese and ham sandwich - no alternatives. My family owns an awesome toaster too, one with handles and adjustable width and shit...but they never use it! I remember on our Europe trip in 2007, my mother was considering bringing one of these toasters home in her suitcase.


Its gotten to the point where bringing out the toaster from the top cupboard is such a mission, that I just settle for no toast. Also, they don't eat margerine. Or marmite. Or pickles.


PANINO MAN: Panini are wonderful. There is a bergie in Bergamo who thinks so too. Every time anybody passes him, he begs for money for a panino. Do-gooder mission of the year: buy the oke a panino.


CAKE FROM A PACKET: My mom is a wonderful baker. She abhorrs box-brownies or pre-mixed pancake powder. Trust, she taught us well. At school, I used to bring about 50 cupcakes to school when a friend had a birthday, and they were always gone within 10 minutes - as was the extra tuppaware of icing I used to bring (Gabi Stein has no skaam in sticking her fingers in there. And then in her mouth. 52497 times dipping.)


My host-sister had some friends over for dinner the other night, and for dessert, pulled out 2 packets of cake batter - shop-bought (#GASP), poured them into a cake tin, baked it, pulled it out and dusted it with icing sugar. It was damn delicious, I will tell you. The thing is - Italian bakers don't bugger around - this batter is actually made from scratch - it has eggs and butter and milk in it, too, and an expiration date. So, technically, it's like making it from scratch. Right?


However, when her friends said, "Hmm nom nom, complimenti, Luci", I couldn't help but defend the packet's honour. I couldn't let her take the credit.


PASTA: There is a myth (mostly enforced by my mom) that Italians eat their pasta with a spoon - you curl the spaghetti strands into a big spoon with your fork, and eat it that way. In fact, Italians probably eat their pasta in the most unattractive, childish way - cut it into little piece before eating and then eating it with a spoon in small mouthfulls. They stab their penne, rather than scoop it onto the fork-tips like us South Africans have been taught. Some superfancy Italians use the side of their bowl (ALWAYS a bowl for pasta) to curl the strands around their fork (note: no spoon included) - don't underestimate this process: it is hazardous to the bowl, your clothing (depending on the stain-potential of the sauce), your ears (that scraping sound grillllllsss me), and also, your dignity.

Regardless of all my complaints: the pasta, bread, pizza, gelado, pretty much everything - is better here than it is wherever you are. Trust.