Far-Away Places

I often think of all those years when I was bullied as a child. I would sit in my bedroom, from 7pm to 9pm reading stories about far-away and imaginary places. My bed was always the same, and I always read in the same place. My bedroom didn’t change.

But I did.

I was on an island, or out at sea, or on a horse. I was being chased or I was doing the chasing. I was free, I was in chains, I was the best, I was the worst, I was the last, I was the first, I was rich, I was poor, I was here, I was there, I was far, I was near. I belonged to something bigger than me. I was everywhere and nowhere, I was everything and I was nothing. And it felt so good.

But at 9pm, every evening, I had to close the book, jump back into my skin again and become me. I didn’t want to be me. Every time I opened a book, it was like opening a door. And closing the book was like hearing that door shut behind me.

Little did I know at the time that one day reading would help me to keep that door wide open.

And now stories are taking me to the far-away places I used to read about and dream of when I was a boy, and making them real. Next month I am going to Japan, and the month after that to Brazil, to talk about stories. 
I will keep you posted :)

You say Tomato, I say Tomato

When I first started shopping for food in Italy in 1990, the problem was of a linguistic nature. I remember one of my first ever shopping expeditions. I went to a supermarket called, ‘The Centre of Delights’. ‘Well, that can’t be bad,’ I thought. ‘It’s in the centre, and everything in there will be delightful and delicious’, I thought optimistically.

Indeed, everything did look quite delicious. But I didn’t know my way around an Italian supermarket at that time. A lot of the purchases seemed to involve conversations with one member of staff or another. I was used to just wheeling my trolley around, and throwing things in there. No, this seemed more complicated. This involved conversation. This involved negotiation.

I didn’t have much Italian at my disposal, but I found some eggs, and I knew the Italian word for mushrooms. I began to think of omelettes. Armed with this knowledge, I made my way confidently to the fruit and veg section. I looked at the mushrooms and pointed,

‘Funghi per favore.’

‘How many?’ asked the lady.

I hadn’t thought about that. ‘How do I explain how many mushrooms I want?’ I asked myself. And then I had a brainwave. I remembered the word, ‘kilo’. ‘There are kilos in Britain, although nobody uses them. And it’s the same word.’

‘Un kilo per favore,’ I said confidently

But soon I was crestfallen. I didn’t realise that a kilo of mushrooms, was a lot of mushrooms.

And I didn’t know how to stop the woman, who began shovelling an enormous quantity of mushrooms into a bag.

I did know the word, ‘Basta!’ -  ‘Enough.’

But it seemed too rude to me.

Enough!

No that was too rude.

So I smiled shyly as she shovelled a quantity of mushrooms that could feed a whole town, into a gigantic plastic bag.

By now I have learnt how to say ‘stop’ politely. And I have learnt all the words for quantities. One etto, two etti etc. I have also learnt other subtleties like, ‘un etto e mezza’, ‘un etto scarsa’ ‘un etto abbondanti’. All of these nuances I have mastered.

So you would think that shopping for food has become easier for me.

Oh, I wish that were the case.

The problem is that my difficulty with expressing quantity has been replaced by one of understanding quality.

The other day for example, I strode into the greengrocers to get some tomatoes. Now when I was younger, and living in Britain I am sure that things were much simpler. A tomato was a tomato. I could ask for four tomatoes and the shop assistant would move to a crate full of regular, normal tomatoes, and put them in a bag.

But in Italy it is much more complicated.

As I went into the greengrocers I cast my eyes around the shop to find the tomatoes. There were so many different kinds. Big ones, small ones, medium ones. big and green ones, small and red ones, medium reddish-green ones, fat ones, pointy small ones. Tomatoes that are good for sauce, tomatoes that are good for salads, tomatoes that are ripe, tomatoes that will last longer. I could go on and on.

And on.

The tomato is no longer a tomato.

I took out my phone and tapped a message to my wife.

‘What kind of tomatoes shall I get?’

The response was rapid. ‘Not too ripe, but not too green, and make sure they are cheap. Get something local, but only if they are not too expensive.’

When did it get so complicated? When did a tomato stop being a tomato?

My mind was whirring. Should I take a risk and buy one type of tomato, or one of each kind, so that at least one of them would be right?

And so, once again, after many, many years of living in Italy, I came out of the shop with an enormous bag.

This time, full of tomatoes.

That is the beauty of Italy I suppose when it comes to food. There is so much choice. But it is too much for someone like me with a minimum level of tomato knowledge.

And that is why you can say tomato, and I can say tomato, but we might be talking an entirely different language.

How to Invite

Hello! I would like you to read this. If you are busy though, don’t worry. I imagine that you have better things to do. I won’t take it personally if you stop reading at this point. It really isn’t a problem at all.

Hello!

Are you still here?

Really?

Are you still reading?

Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Thank you very much for staying with me. Well, since you have arrived this far, I have a little story for you about my first year in Italy. I hope you like it.

I picked up the phone, and fed some coins into the machine. I was nervous. I was about to do something I had done a hundred times before. I was going to ask a girl out. This was different though. It was the first time that I had done such a thing in Italy.

After a few seconds, the girl picked up the phone.

‘Hello Barbara, è Michael. You know, I met you last week. ‘Il ragazzo inglese, Erm … I was wondering if you would like to come out with me this Sabato, per una pizza o gelato, or something like that. If you can’t come don’t worry. It’s not a problem. Non c’e problemo. I just thought I’d ask. If you like, you know. If you can’t come, it’s OK, because I’m going out anyway, you see, with other people. There’ll be a group of us, so don’t worry.’

My invitation tailed off gradually, but the receiver didn’t seem to be making any noises like ‘Oh’ ‘Ah? ‘I see,’ ‘Right’, 'OK.’ There was nothing. No reaction. Silence

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, I heard a voice on the other end of the phone. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak English very well,’ the voice said.

‘OK Bye Barbara,’ I replied.

As I walked out into the street I didn’t feel too bad about myself. I had been defeated, but I was not deflated. After all my ego was still intact. It was a language problem, wasn’t it? No problemo. It was nothing to do with me as a person. Obviously the language of love was not enough. I had to learn Italian. Then I would be able to invite Barbara out.

Simple!

Well, not so simple really. I still remember arriving at Unit 18 of my grammar book and looking at the conjugation of the future. ‘The Italian future is complicated,’ I thought. And my own future got even more complicated when I saw the conditional and the subjunctive form. I wanted to go home.

But I didn’t go home. I stayed, and, little by little my language improved. However, my success with the girls sadly did not. As I got better, it only served to make it easier for me to understand how I was being rejected. But I still didn’t understand why. What was I doing wrong? I could say things like this in perfect Italian.

‘Would you like to come to dinner on Saturday? Don’t worry if you can’t. There are other people coming, so the dinner will go ahead anyway. Maybe you’ve got something else to do, so if you can’t come, I’ll understand.’

But it was no use. The answer was always a polite ‘No Thank you’.

And then one summer, I finally understood what it was that I was doing wrong. I was in Britain, and I had invited an Italian friend over to stay with me at my mother’s house. I hadn’t seen my mother for six months, and she greeted me in this way:

 ‘I’m so happy to see you Michael. This afternoon, I’m going to the centre to do a bit of shopping. Would you like to come? Don’t worry if you can’t. I’m meeting Bonita, and Auntie Pam, so I’m going anyway. Maybe you’d prefer to go out with your friend. If you can’t come, I’ll understand. I’ve got plenty of other things to do anyway.’

When my mum left on her shopping trip my friend turned to me and said, ‘Your mum hates you!’

But she didn’t hate me. Far from it. She was just doing something that I think is very British. She was giving me some room for maneuver. She was giving me the chance to refuse the invitation without being embarrassed.

It was then that I realised that I was doing the same thing in Italy, to Italians. I was giving people the space to say no, but I was giving them too much space. The message you give if you invite an Italian in this very British way is this. ‘I’m inviting you, but you are not really that important.’

I had finally understood that knowledge of the language is not enough. You also have to understand the culture that is behind it. Now I invite Italian friends to dinner as if my very life depended upon it. I say, Please come! It won’t be the same without you! We really need you there! And you know what? It works! They come :)

So, I think it's time to change the introduction to this article. Maybe it would sound better like this.

I hope you can find the time to read this. It would mean a lot to me if you did. I spent quite a lot of time writing it because it is important to me. There is something that I want to share with you, a story about how I muddled through life in Italy during my first year. I’m sure you will find it worth your while if you continue reading. If you have got this far then maybe you will go on. 

I really hope so.

How To Bend The Rules

‘Just made it, that was a bit of luck!’ I said to myself as I hopped on to the number 46. The bus sped off as I steadied myself and looked for my ticket.

After rummaging through my pockets for a few moments I found it.  

But then my luck started to run out. I staggered towards the machine to punch in my ticket, but the machine wasn’t working. No problem, I thought. I’ll speak to the driver. The bus was moving quite quickly by this time, so I made my way carefully to the front, lurching from one side to the other, and muttering apologies to the people I disturbed. And then I looked up and saw the sign

NON PARLARE AL CONDUCENTE - DO NOT SPEAK TO THE DRIVER

Oh no! I was in that place again. That place that no British person likes to be. I was stuck between two rules. Which one should I obey? Which one should I disobey?

I remained motionless, well almost motionless, as I swayed from one side of the bus to the other. The driver seemed to be determined to break some kind of land speed record. I was paralysed –Should I carry on my journey without paying, or should I interrupt the driver and distract him, as he hurtled along the road?

My solution was to stay where I was, my feet firmly planted near the exit door, stuck inside some kind of loop.

Speak to the driver – No – Punch your ticket – Can’t – Speak to the driver – No – Punch your ticket – Can’t - Speak to the driver – Can’t – Punch your ticket– No, Can’t, No, Can’t, No, No, NO!

There seemed to be no way out of this loop, no loophole. And so I remained that way until the bus arrived at my stop. At last the spell was broken, I was free, I could get out, I could get on with my life, I could   …   I could see the ticket inspectors.

I had some explaining to do, and so I did what I always do when I am embarrassed, I started to talk, and talk, and talk.

‘I’m sorry but you see, I went to punch the ticket as I always do, I always pay, I never get on the bus without my ticket, well maybe once I did but that’s because I got distracted because I bumped into an old friend, but anyway that’s not important right now, the machine you see, the machine wasn’t working, but I had my ticket as I said before, but I couldn’t punch it, so I er.. well  I went to speak to the driver but then I saw the sign that said I couldn’t and so I couldn’t punch my ticket or speak to the driver and so  I didn’t know what to do, and I was thinking about it when I sort of, well, you know, arrived.’

I could see the inspectors moving away from me, little by little, as I told them my story. They understood every word I said, but not one word made sense to them. I had been stuck between two rules, and I needed to share.  But all credit to them. They phoned the driver (wasn’t that against the rules?) and my story was verified. The machines weren’t working. I was innocent. I was free. I was in the clear. Phew!

We British have a thing about rules. We don’t like to break them – not unless we really have to. Maybe sometimes we have to learn to bend the rules just a little, when there is a danger that they might break us. However most of the time, we like rules. They make the world an easier place to live in. And when there aren’t any rules strange things can happen.

When I lived in England, my brother was a train driver, and he went from Southend-On-Sea to London and back every day. In his cabin there was a device that enabled you to see what was happening along the entire length of the train. Normally there was nothing much going on, just people reading the newspaper, children crying. You could hear the excited chatter of teenagers – the usual things. But one day was different. My brother looked into the device and saw a couple making love towards the back of the train.

This was strange enough, but what was even stranger was that the carriage was full, and nobody said anything. The passengers hid behind their newspapers as the train rolled on.

When the couple had finished their sweaty tussle, they sat back and lit up a cigarette. Before they could take their first puff, five or six people put down their papers and started to protest. ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ they said in unison. ‘Look, it says, "No smoking", can't you read?' and then they pointed to a sign nearby.

‘Rules are rules, after all.’

The Green Book Part Three (Alternative 3)

The Green Book Part Three [Alternative 3]

I didn’t have much time. I ran into the living room and put the book on the table, in front of the TV. And then I went outside. Dad would be home soon and I wanted to see what he did when he found the book. I looked through the window. I could see everything perfectly there.

Dad arrived ten minutes later. I heard him coughing as he walked up to the door. He took off his coat, and then he went into the kitchen to make some tea.

‘Hurry up Dad,’ I thought. ‘Hurry up!’

Finally he went into the living room. He was just about to turn on the TV. But at that moment he stopped. He had noticed something. He had seen the Green Book. He picked it up and opened it.

I didn’t want to disturb him, so I waited. He sat down on the sofa. He didn’t turn on the TV. He normally did that when he got home. But now he just started reading. He was reading the book, and little by little a smile began to appear on his face. A smile! The first smile I had seen on his face for a long time. He was reading the story, but I’d like to think that at the same time, he was also reading another story. He was remembering that little boy he once was. He had forgotten who he was. But now he was beginning to remember.

I waited for a while longer. It was nice to watch Dad sitting there, reading my favourite book. Of course it was also my dad’s favourite book, because it was the only book he had ever read. Watching him, sitting on the sofa, reading the story, helped me to understand him. It was hard for him, without Mum, and he didn’t know how to free himself from this feeling of sadness. He didn’t know what to do. ‘Maybe the book will help him a little,’ I thought. After a while, I went into the room quietly. At first, I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him. Then he heard me when I sat down, and he looked up.

‘What book is it?’ I asked. I knew it was ‘The Railway Children.’ But I wanted to see what he said.

‘It’s…It’s the green book, you know, the one I told you about. How did it get here?’

‘Oh, I found it in the garage. Do you like it? The book I mean.’

‘Yes, I think I can finish it now,’ he said smiling – Another smile!

‘What’s it called?’

‘The Railway Children,’ said Dad.

‘That’s my favourite book,’ I said. ‘My favourite story. We can read it together, if you like.’

Dad looked at me again. It was the kind of look that only a mother or father can give you. It was like he knew something, but he didn’t say anything. ‘Yes, Michael, yes …that’s a great idea,’ he said.

I closed the book, put it back on the shelf, and jumped out of the story. And then I looked around the room. It was 2014 again, and there was my dad, sitting in his armchair. Now he was an old man, and I was no longer a twelve year old boy.

I say that Dad was in the room with me, but in a certain sense he wasn’t. There’s a name for what he had. Alzheimer’s. Death without dying, life without living.

My father couldn’t remember the green book anymore. For him, the green book was full of blank pages.

I sat for a while with him in silence, remembering for the both us. Trying to fill up those pages by myself. But soon it was time to go.

‘Dad, it was great to see you again,’ I said. ‘I have to go now, but I’ll come back soon, I promise.’

Dad looked at me and smiled. Now he smiled a lot. So many memories had gone and so had all the hardness in his face. His face was much softer now.

‘I’m sorry!’ he said. ‘I want to say, I just want to say, that …

I love you!

But … But I’m not quite sure who you are!’

I stood there. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know where to look. Something incredible had just happened. For the first time in my life my father had told me that he loved me.

And now finally I knew. It had always been there.

Love.

Love had always been there.

And it wasn’t hiding anymore.

It wasn’t hiding behind all those other things. Fear, Regret, Jealousy, Hate, Resentment. For my father, all those things had gone, but love had remained. And now it was free. It was free to say what it had to say, and I could hear its voice.

My father wasn’t a teacher. He wasn’t a man of many words. But on that day he gave me the lesson of my life. A lesson I will never forget. With three simple words, he taught me everything I needed to know. This is what he taught me:

Love should have no hiding place.