Nonna

On my first day in our new apartment I was introduced by the landlord to 'Nonna'. She lives in the apartment down the corridor, she is 88 years young. I had watched her during the day come out to hang her washing, stand in the afternoon sun and to call for 'Mina' her cat "Dove sei Mina?"(Where are you Mina?).

On my second day in the apartment, it was late in the afternoon. I was cooking in the kitchen when I heard the bell ring at the gate. I poked my head out the window and saw 'Nonna' standing at the gate. She stands about 1.5m tall, with shiny white short cropped and neatly combed hair, a strong yet smiling face and dresses in smart pants, cream cashmere sweaters, matching scarfs and knitted shawls. She stood at the gate clutching her shawl with one hand and with the other she waved and motioned in the air for me to come as she said " Vieni Vieni dai Vieni" (Come come-on come). Initially I was worried, I thought 'Nonna' might need some help so I went out to see what she might need. She said "Ciao Cara vieni veini"(Hello dear, come come) and motioned with her hands that i close the front door and follow her. So I did.

We arrived at Nonna's place and once inside it was instantly clear that she didn't need my help, she just wanted to show me her home. She stood in the entry hall with arms out and proudly announced "Ecco questa e' la mia casa" (This is my house). She then proceeded to show me every nook & cranny of her quaint, two story apartment with such a-matter-of-fact…... "Questo e' il mio bagno (This is my bathroom), Questa e' la mia cucina (This is my kitchen), Queste sono le mie scale (These are my stairs), Questo e' il lettino dove Mina dorme (This is where Mina sleeps), Questo e' il mio piccolo palazzo (this is my little palace)"…a rooftop terrace with views fit for a king, "Questa e' la coperta che ho fatto (This is the blanket I made), Queste sono le foto delle mie nipoti These are photos of my granddaughters), Questo e' il diploma d'arte di mio marito (This is my husdands art diploma), Questi sono i quadri di mio marito (These are my husband's paintings) and "Questo e' il mio tavolo (This is my dining table)". Then I was ordered to sit at the table "Siediti, siediti" (sit, sit).So I did.

As I sat I admired the old wooden table. Nonna noticed me admiring the table and told me it was a very old table and it was very heavy. "Prova ad alzarlo" (try to lift it) she ordered…so I did…and it was heavy. She smiled and giggled at my efforts. "Siediti" she ordered, oop she's telling me to sit down again. I do as I'm told. Nonna talks as she ruffles in the kitchen and comes out with a basket of dry crackers and wafer biscuits. "Mangia, mangia" she says…oop I'm being told to eat…so I do.

I munch on the dry, yet tasty crackers and Nonna scoots over to the wooden buffet, from the cupboard she whips out a bottle of masala. She says "Adesso berremo del masala" (Now we will
drink masala)…so we do. She unfairly pours a splash into her glass and fairly fills my glass to the rim. We sip on the sweet masala and Nonna talks. She talks fast and enthusiastically and I really can't get most of what she is saying but I don't mind. I settle into my chair, my cheeks flushed with wine and I listen to her every word. I take in every line on her beautiful face and admire her strong hands that tell of a life of hard work. I have understood some things thought, about her life. I have understood her beloved husband has passed away, that she lives alone, that her granddaughters and great grandchildren live in America and that her cherished darling daughter has recently passed away. As she talked of this tragedy she clasped her face and shook her head. Her sorrow needs not translation. I tried hard not to dwell in pity for her, for she I'm sure, doesn't want my pity. Pity is insulting to a woman of her calibre. She did, I sense, want my company and that I was happy to give.

At first glance Nonna is small and fragile but once in her company she is a mighty force, strong willed, lively and will never take no for an answer. I found this last fact out after I tried to say 'NO' to a second glass of masala. She wouldn't take my no, instead continuing to talk, popping the cork and splashing my glass full again. Already a bit tipsy from my first glass, I looked at Nonna, then looked at the full glass and thought 'bugger-it'! She's enjoying my company as much as I'm enjoying hers. So there we sat, at Nonna's heavy wooden table. I ate & drank and she talked. She showed me her full buffet cabinet of crockery and fine china, each piece with its own story. Then she flung open the door of her 'glasses' cabinet full of shiny polished wine and champagne glasses. She stood in front of it with her arms wide open and said "Perche' ho tutti questi bicchieri?" (Why do I have all of these?),
"Chi usera' tutti questi bicchiri?" (Who's going to use all of these?). Me, now very merry on masala threw one arm around Nonna and gestured grandly with the other and said "We will use them Nonna, we will drink wine and champagne until every glass is dirty". She giggled thinking I was joking!

Just then, a tsunami of sadness surged through me as thoughts of my own darling 'Nanna Rusty' flooded in. Bringing tears of nostalgia, love and of regret. Regret for how little I visited her when I was in Perth. She did not live down the corridor from me, but she lived close enough. She to is a mighty force, strong willed and full of life, laughter, wisdom and stories of loss and joy. A woman who's presence is somehow unearthly, high, knowing, loving and wise beyond measure. To dwell in the past is not 'Nanna Rusty's' style so I take a leaf out of her book and push the surging sadness away before I drown in a little puddle of self-pity. I wish the tears away and sip at my sweet wine. I smile over at 'Nonna' vowing in my head to visit her every chance I get. I read once 'To live in the present alone is to fix the future'.

My glass was empty, luckily so was the bottle and it was time to go. I said my farewell to Nonna, kissed her on the cheeks and thanked her for her hospitality and her company. She grabbed me by the arms, looked me square in the face and said "No, grazie a te per la tua compagnia" (No, thank you for the company my dear). As I walked away, down the corridor I thought to myself 'No, thank you 'Nonna'.

A foot note of thanks for my Nanna Rusty:

A day does not pass where you do not cross my mind. I love you beyond measure. You have shaped who I am and the person I aim to be beyond measure. I count the days until I can return home and have a 'Nanna Rusty' hug. A Nanna Rusty hug is almighty, big and strong. I melt into her when she hugs me, her love so enveloping it makes me weak at the knees. I never feel as completely loved as I do when she hugs me. Nobody else will I love as much as she. Nobody else makes me feel so loved….so I say an unmeasurable 'Thankyou Nanna Rusty for loving me'.

"My life is in your hands"

Now this phrase is a very dramatic phrase. Maybe something you would say to the doctor, perhaps before a lifesaving operation……I'm not going to have a lifesaving operation; I'm going to the hairdresser!

I'm going to a hairdresser who doesn't speak English, he speaks Italian and I speak English, I don't speak Italian ( not yet anyway). I had made the appointment spontaneously one afternoon with a salon in town that was recommended by a good friend. When I had made the appointment all I could manage to babble out was " tagliare, colore, Questa settimana? Giovedi? Alla dieci? Si perfetto, Civediamo giovedi!" Which translates exactly to "Cut, colour, this week? Thursday? 10.00am? yes perfect, see you Thursday". As I left the salon I was a little chuffed I did that all by myself and then a little baffled as to how I'm going to tell the hairdresser what I need and want done with my curly locks. In my experience not many (any) hairdressers (except my aunty strawb…'hair with flair') know how to deal with curly hair and I normally end up coming out looking like an electrocuted poodle. And this is after in English, at length I have detailed my wants, needs, dislikes and fears. My fear of the hairdresser can be compared to a bad fear of flying. I normally sit, shaking, sweating and hyperventilating at every bit of movement.

As I sat in the chair I felt weirdly calm. I thought this complete lack of communication would freak me out but it had the opposite effect. I felt more excited than anything, excited and a bit perplexed as to why I put myself in this position in the first place, but mostly excited. Like when your team is kicking the deciding goal after the siren and your sweaty, sickly nervously excited. It could go either way, it could go horribly wrong and he could miss or it could all go beautifully right, but it's not up to you. You can't kick the ball, your life, your happiness is in someone else's hands.

So I sit there and let the games begin. I watch the cute little guy fan colour swatches of hair across my forehead as if he were competing in a Japanese 'fan opening' competition. With a colour decided the cute little blonde assistant begins to brush in the colour…my eyes go a bit wide when I realise I forgot to try and inform them I wanted 'foils' and not a whole full colour. Oh well too late now…how exciting!

This whole language barrier thing works rather to your advantage when at the hair dresser. You don't have to obligingly answer the plethora of scripted questions from the very uninterested hairdresser " So are you going out tonight? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Does he have any friends? What do you do for work? …" I always feel like saying 'Please, just concentrate on my hair, that's what I'm here for". Today I sit in silence and feel good that she's just concentrating on my hair. I calmly sit in silence, looking at the pretty pictures in magazines and I think to myself 'Whatever happens today , I will just have to accept it. Good or bad, although im hoping to walk out looking like an Italian movie star. Two years ago I got a really shocking hair cut just before I left for my first Italian holiday. I erupted like an of the Richter scale earthquake. The tremors and aftershocks carried on for the whole holiday with violent eruptions of swear words and hate for "that fucking BITCH…I cant believe what she did to me…".. I acted like she had cut of my left arm. Even though I do feel like my hair is a precious extension of me, my precious hair grew back rather quickly. I wasted a lot of precious energy and time that holiday obsessing over my hair and regret that. But with regrets come lessons to learn.

Today it's a 50/50…..electrocuted poodle or Italian film star. 'I will be happy whatever happens' I tell myself VERY sternly. I have no-one to blame. The cute little hairdresser was asked by me in broken Italian to "Just do what you think needs doing". I do deserve the 'bravery award 2010' for that one! And as for me, past regrets have taught me a lot. Why should I only be happy if my haircut turns out good? I should be happy either way, good or bad! Because my happiness is more important than my hair…yes I just said that!

The colour is washed out and I'm seated in front of the mirror for the elusive 'cut'. My eyes bawk as I notice a lovely orange tinge in my hair. I'm trying to think how I would try and say 'I need a toner, you need to fix this, I wanted blonde not orange' but I don't have a clue how to say that so instead I just try to think of all the famous film stars with orange hair, change IS GOOD… 'this is still good' it try to convince myself. It's time for the cut and I try to motion with my hands and slowly say "I WANT L-A-Y-E-R-S"…and then realise no matter how slow I say it , it won't translate. So I smile, sit back and let the games continue.

The cute little hairdresser guy is standing behind me, scissors poised. I notice he has a ridiculously similar resemblance to 'Edward Scissor Hands'. I have to hold in and 'out-loud' laugh as flashes from the film run through my mind of 'Edward Scissor Hands' frantically hacking at hedge bushes and heads of hair….and HES OFF, he flicks his scissors before he takes the first cut as if he were Zoro. He picks up a big chunk of my hair from the crown of my head…and ITS OFF. I can't believe my eyes. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I know for a fact what he just did is an unfixable cardinal sin for cutting curly hair! I decide to laugh, because what else can I do, and anyway this could all be worth it just watching him swinging his scissors around my head like Zoro. Only in Italy can someone look so good while cutting my hair so bad.

The cut is done and my hair is dry. I'm in front of the mirror again being pampered like a prize winning poodle which is only fitting because that's just what I look like. A lovely fluffy tuft on top of my head and then a longer layer that looks like my cute fluffy poodle ears. All with, shall we say, an 'apricot' tinge. So there it was, I had to give him some credit because I got more than what I was expecting. Instead of 'electrocuted poodle' I got 'prize winning pampered poodle'….and that's got to be worth something!

I paid my money and said a polite "Grazie" and then once outside I burst out laughing. At that moment I half expected a bounding 'pity-party' to jump out from around a corner or jump down from a window above, tackle me to the floor and pin me to the ground, slap me in the face and say "STOP SMILING, LOOK AT WHAT HE DID TO YOUR HAIR, WE SHOULD BE SO UPSET AND ANGRY RIGHT NOW"…but there was no 'pity-party', only laughter. I knew my hair would grow out, I knew being upset about this would not fix anything and I knew that next time I would go to a different hairdresser with a friend who speaks English & Italian to translate for me. I thought of something my nanna Rusty would say, something she says about everything thing that could possibly be tragic from a bad haircut to a diagnosis of cancer "Oh well, at least you don't have dandruff" she says! And I laughed all the way home with MY HAPPINESS FIRMLY IN MY HANDS…

Fair trade?

I'm at the airport saying good-bye to a fabulous, endearing adorable friend of mine, Pamela. She is from Australia but is living in London and she came to visit me for a whirlwind weekend here in Italy. Before she boarded the plane i thought it only proper to finish this overindulgent weekend of food wine talking and laughing with a nice glass of bubbly. As i swallowed the last drop of bubbly prosecco(aka 'pamelas water') from my glass, a sour taste came into my mouth. As i realised that once my fabulous bubbly friend gets on the plane, so to will our fabulous bubbly conversations in our native english.

We chatted frantically right up until she boarded the plane, Luca, the whole time watched in amazment at how fast our conversations changed topic from food, wine, food, travel, family, food and poo!

After she had boarded, we(Luca & I) took a little look around the ever fabulous 'airport shop'. I love airport shops, filled with nothing you need but everything you want. As i aimlessly wandered around i came across the magazine stand, about to just keep on walking because they are all printed in Italian then...i stopped dead in my tracks as my eyes focused on an entire stand dedicated to magazines in English print....I just stood there gobbling up all the glorious English words, just like i had gobbled up my delicious pizza the day before while nursing one fabulous hangover. I stood there staring at all the magazine cover and actually thought i saw a big glowing halo shinning around the entire stand, then i felt two strong, firm hands on my shoulders and i froze. I thought...'oh my god..its god!'. But it was just Luca, who slowly and kindly turned me around on the spot. Gently leading me away, reassuring me that it will not help me to learn Italian if i buy one of those magazines.

Once we got in the car and drove away from the airport i felt a tinge of sadness pinch me right in my chest. As i drove away from my near dear friend who, for three days delighted me with her effervescent, energetic, contagious zest for life. More delightful was the feeling of 'Self ' i got back over those three days being able to speak and interact with someone who is from Australia, who is a friend, who speaks and understands our cultural humour, who gets my aussie slang jokes first hit without awkward translations, who allowed me to speak with all the colourful details, thoughts and feelings i was needing so desperately to share.

I like to think of myself as a good conversationalist, the perfect dinner party guest. You can plonk me next to just about anybody and i will happily strike up a good, if not great conversation. Now although many of my friends here speak english, just like my basic italian, their english is basic. So... my basic italian + their basic english = a basic conversation. And after a while of these basic conversations you start to loose a bit of 'yourself'..well i found so anyway. Like when a conversation is in full-swing and all i want to is jump right in with my opinion, my thoughts, my feelings but my basic italian wont let me, i don't know the words to use...or really whats going on in the conversation. So i just have to sit back, totally out of the conversation and get on by with the basic italian i can handle. Once the overwhelming frustration of this truth wore of, i began to think 'hey, maybe iv just lost my 'great' conversation skills, maybe iv lost a bit of my personality. Maybe without realising i traded it in for the basic model'....



It only took me three seconds once Pamela arrived in Italy to realise that i hadn't lost anything, i hadn't lost me, I had been there the whole time. As i began to babble like a mad cow jumping from topic to topic in crazy colourful delightful conversation, right there at the arrival gate!



It only took me one whole day after Pamela arrived to realise, in fact i hadn't lost anything at all, i had actually gained something. As in between our colourful conversations i was able to order food & drinks for us, ask directions, opening times,...talk to friends in the street all in italian and even better i was translating from english to italian and vice-versa for her.

This is the law of the universe, of giving and receiving. In order to receive this language i had to give, or give-up, for a couple of months anyway, my motor mouth, my love of being the center of the conversational universe.



Once we arrived home from the airport there was still a little bit of melancholy hanging around so i began to tidy our room. As i was tidying i spotted a little black box in my hand-bag. It was a beautifully decorated box of 'Enghlish breakfast tea' that Pamela had brought from London as a gift for me. As i picked up the box with excitement, i realised that every side of this six sided box of English breakfast tea was covered in English writing. I smiled at the irony of this and then sat on the bed happily drinking in all the English words and sentences. I read the company name, the instructions on how to make the perfect cup of tea, the companies fair trade pledge and policies and even the recycling 'this product is bio-degradable' part. After i read the box 10 times, i didnt want to miss a word, i placed it on the dressing table right next to my perfume. I put it there as a cute little reminder that, just for the moment, i need to nicely& neatly fold all my descriptive, colourful English and put it in a little box, a box i can open at any time, if i want to. In return i can receive, if i want to, and i do, the beautiful gift of another language and i think thats a pretty fair trade!

'Here i am'

A couple of years ago i was sitting with my mum having 'wine time' and we were talking about what we want out of life, want we want to do and be in our life. I think mum said something along the lines of " I just want to be happy " ....when it was my turn i said "....well, i would like to move to Italy one day, i want to learn Italian, become a published writer, have a photograph published in national geographic, be a teacher, travel the entire world and write for lonely planet, open a small cute cafe...oh yeah and be happy! "

Peering at me over her wine glass, mouth slightly open, she said " Are you going to do ALL of this before... or after you move to Italy? " thinking i was joking. My reply was very serious and something along the lines of " Oh god no mum....i want to do all of this before i die...i have plenty of time ". She nodded her head slowly & silently, eyes wide and eyebrows raised with a look on her face of 'sure, yes plenty of time darling' as we sipped at our sav blanc.

Well, as luck would have it....I'm living in Italy. The perfect place to learn Italian right? To tick another box on the list. But alas it seems instead of trying to learn Italian i have been flitting about with the little, comfortable Italian i do know, not making much effort to learn more. While continuing on filling my days with a relentless pursuit to do and be everything on my very long list, all at the same time. I have five journals on the go for the five books I'm trying to write, i put time aside each day for illustrating those books, i research cute interior designs for the cute little cafe i want, i exercise, i eat, i meditate, I'm composing a cover letter to lonely planet, I'm thinking about what photos i would send to national geographic, I'm looking into a teaching course to teach english as a foreign language....im doing everything but learning Italian, everything but learning MY foreign language.

A couple of days ago this ravenous pursuit for everything came to an almighty tearfull holt in the bedroom, where between breathless sobs and snot, Luca calmly and carefully listened to my little pathetic pitty party( including hand gestures...im in Italy Eh!) because i have not learned Italian yet. Luca then calmly and carefully asked me a very powerful question "How hard have you been trying to learn?". I was instantly engulfed with hot anger at this question and looked at Luca in the eye like an angry bull ready to snap back my defence....but, when i looked at him i realised i wasn't angry at him, i felt no anger when i looked at him. In that instant i realised all that anger was directed directly at ME. I felt like there was another me, standing infront of me, pointing her finger at me and she said..."answer the question"... and so i whimpered out a coy "I haven't been trying at all". Then she said to me... "now ask yourself why"....I thought for a moment and sobbed out..."because im afraid i will fail, im afraid i cant do it, im afraid of sounding stupid ". Here i was, thinking i was just really damn good at multitasking all my goals simultaneously...instead a was just covering up the fear. I let fear stand infront of me like a big scary gate keeper and i didn't even try to pass him. I just ran in every other direction, trying to do everything else but look at him.

The realisation and clarification of this, plus Lucas next very powerful question " What was your goal once we moved to Italy?" along with my sheepish reply "Learn Italian!" brought an immediate calmness and stillness to my mind. I had just been pulled back into the present moment. I had confronted and understood my fear and was ready to walk past it. I knew then that there was no need for this relentless pursuit of all my goals right now, that their time will come. That my goal for this year was to learn Italian and here i am in Italy, here i am, ready to learn Italian....

After this realisation, i went out and sat on the terrace with a blank piece of paper and a pen...and this is what came out....

HERE I AM

The universe shifted & changed for me, i wanted with all my heart to be in Italy to learn this beautiful language

And now I am here....here I am

I must take this opportunity with both hands, with enthusiasm and energy. I must look at the fear in the eyes, smile and walk right on past

I must be a reflection of myself, inside and outside. The inside must be a reflection of all the beauty the universe has layed at my feet

I must always be in the present. The present is a gift we must carry always. Being delighted by it, excited by it, in it, wrapped up by it

I must drop the yarn that spins from the past and leads into the future. Let it go, and pick up the present that is at my feet

I must marvel at it, I must look at it, I must enjoy it because...

Here i am

The 'INSIDE' word

I squeeze into my now very tight jeans, put on a black t-shirt, slip on my black flats, pin my hair up and put on a bit of make-up. I do my last important checks...three favorite lipglosses, CHECK... wine knife, CHECK... pen, CHECK. I'm all ready for my first night of work in Italy. Now i have been working in restaurants and waitresing since i was 14 years old, i can do this job with my eyes closed. Or can I? My first month here in Italy has been spent by sleeping in, reading books, writing stories and sunning myself at the lake. Not a very good way to learn a new language!


Luckily for me I'm working with a friend,who speaks English, in his restaurant. An amazing place up in the green mountains behind Cannobio. This place has a grand old presence, a gentle cozy personality all of its own. Its a beautiful, rustic 300 year old stone cottage that has had a thousand different lives and tell its stories through its walls and the funny old trinkets that adorn its shelves and crevices.


So i take a deep breath at the front door, fluff my hair and walk inside. The night starts great and i feel totally at ease, the other waiter 'Genius' is also a friend of mine, and also speaks english. His delightful younger sister is working behind the bar, even though she cant speak english we understand each other.


I use the little but useful Italian i do know to greet people and order drinks for the tables. I'm feeling pretty cocky by now, thinking ' Shit I'm good! I'm working in another country that speaks another language and I'm doing OK! '. I hear the bell ring for the kitchen and run down the stairs to take the food. Before i leave the kitchen i ask one of the chef 's the Italian word for 'behind'. If you have ever worked in a restaurant you would know this is a pretty important word in a restaurant kitchen. You say it in the kitchen loudly if you walk behind someone to notify them you are there because the kitchen can be a very dangerous place, sharp knives, hot oily pans and boiling water. So chef gives me the Italian word for behind .... 'dietro'....then he tells me the names of the dishes i have just picked up. I leave the kitchen repeating my new word... dietro, dietro, dietro and head up the stairs to the candle lit dinning room. I arrive at the table with the 3 dishes in my hand. The customers look up and look at me, I look at them, they smile at me, I smile back at them...and i keep smiling. I don't know what to do, i have forgotten the names of the food in my hands. My brain is doing a Homer Simpson . I stand there asking my brain to do some thing, please a little help here? but my brain says ' Nope, i got nothin kid! '. By now I'm a deer in headlights, eyes wide and frozen. Luckily for me the woman at the table gets what is going on, smiles and tells me who ordered what food. So i place the food on the table and say "Grazie" and pull a stupid 'Sorry I'm new' face, walking away feeling like a total twat.


The bell dongs in the kitchen again and a little butterfly starts a party in my stomach. As i tap down the stairs thinking here we go again. I give myself a little confidence pep talk outside the kitchen...come on girl, you can do this, you can do this! So i bound into the kitchen confidently. I have to pass close behind one of the chefs to get to the food pass. So as i squeeze behind him i confidently yell out "DENTRO"....i catch my breath and freeze on the spot and the kitchen goes awkwardly quiet as i realise, standing bum to fanny, behind the chef that i just screamed out "INSIDE".....yes i just told the chef i was 'inside' him. Embarrassing moment number two, CHECK.



Mortified, i hurry past the chef, pick up the food and am only in the kitchen long enough to hear what number table the food is going to. As i head up the stairs I'm thinking ' how embarrassing was that?'. As i head toward the table I'm thinking ' Fuck i forgot to ask ask what the names of these dishes are...' That little butterfly in my stomach starts again and is having a rave party, glow sticks and all. My brain is like a dusty deserted street in an old Western movie, just a few tumbleweeds rolling past and the sound of wind. I'm begging my brain to occupy itself quickly with the names of the food, some words even, any words, english, italian, Mongolian....i don't care what...anything...please! I arrive at the table, they all look up and look at me, i just look at them......................OH Crap! deer in headlights syndrome again. I have to do something, so as i stand at the table holding the three plates smiling i shrug my shoulders and say a nervous "Non lo so in Italiano" which sort of means in english "I don't know what this is called in Italian". My bad italian doesn't work because the man at the table is German, double crap! Luckily 'Genius', the other waiter is behind me so i graciously lean back and ask (not so) subtly out of the side of my mouth "....WHATS....THE...NAME....OF....THEEEESE..." holing the plates up a little. He graciously helps me out and i put the food on the table, before i leave my face does the half cringe, half smirk 'Sorry im new' face again, i wish it wouldn't do that.



I head over to the bar where i dramatically slump on the counter, looking defeated. The gang ask me if I'm OK and i whinge back like a four year old " No. i cant remember any words in italian or english and i just told the chef i was inside him!" Everybody smirks, kind smirks, as they have all travelled before and surely been through the same and can see the funny side in it all. They all reassure me that im doing great and that maybe i can just say 'Occhi ' in the kitchen instead, which means a sort of ' watch out! '. With my new 'behind' word i carry on like a trooper. As the night passes my confidence comes back as i begin to proudly announce food at the tables, take orders for drinks and dessert (in italian!) and say a cheery "buona serata" as people leave. I go into automatic pilot clearing tables and cleaning and the night passes quickly.

By the end of the night i am past tired and just excited that i just worked my first shift in a foreign country and i did good, more than good, GREAT! As i stand in the bar polishing the last load of glasses looking around, i think to myself maybe 'Inside' was the right word after all, because something inside of me changed that night. A powerful sense of confidence, achievement and excitement had moved inside of me and i had a feeling they were there to stay!

Lifes a ' BEACH '

The first time i saw a 'beach' in Italy two years ago, i imagine that i looked like ' Veruca Salt ' from the movie Willy Wonka and the chocolate factory. Shes the spoilt little girl character who screams and shouts..." I WANT A GOLDEN GOOSE NOW DADDY...NOW! " but instead i was screaming..." I WANT WHITE SAND NOW LUCA...NOW! "

In the inland lakes district in northern Italy, there are no beaches, there are lakes...and the term 'beach' is used rather broadly for the patch of dusty grey pebbles in front of the lake! Within seconds of my first sighting of this 'beach' i quickly informed Luca of my disbelief, disheatenment and dismay that there was no sand here. The saga continued and the worst was yet to come( for Luca) as the small grey sharp pebbles my feet had just become accustomed to on the shore turned into large, slimy moss covered rocks once we were in the lake. As my feet fumbled over the slippery rocks i desperately wanted to scream " What the hell is this..where is the sand...I WANT SAND...THERE SHOULD BE SAND....". Instead of screaming this i just repeated those four phrases to Luca for the next 20 minutes.

After we left the lake that day, for the remainder of our holiday people would ask me to the 'beach' and i would reply "That's not a beach, its just dirty grey pebbles and slimy rocks...there's not even any sand..you cant call that a beach"...
Veruca Salt's character in the movie ' Willy Wonka & the Chocolate factory' meets a sad fate. She ends up falling down the rubbish shoot. My first northern Italian 'beach' visit also ended with me meeting a sad fate. I did not end up in the rubbish bin( though I'm sure that's where Luca wanted to put me) , my sad ending was that i arrived at the beach and instantly created a negative, obscure attitude and failed to see the beauty all around me...very sad!

This time around, two years later, its a different story. I'm a tiny teensy bit older, more mature and alot wiser. With this wisdom i have learnt and understood that in life there really is no GOOD or BAD. Life just IS! A thing just IS, a person just IS, an event just IS. It is neither good or bad, it just IS. It is our personal perception of this thing, person, beach or event that puts a 'good' or 'bad' stamp on it. Once you are able to fully understand this you are able to see, or experience something without instinctively putting a good/bad label on it. You are able to see something without judgment, just as it is. And with this my relationship with this 'beach' has become one of beauty!

The 'beach' here is no ordinary beach as the ones I'm used to in Australia, with white sand, blue water and nobody as far as the eye can see. The Italian(northern) version of a beach is a patch of pebbles in front of this glistening green lake that is surrounded by majestic green mountains all painted with historic old towns. Its packed full of outrageously brown bodies of all shapes and sizes, all with colourful BYO floatation device, men in bright orange 'speedos' eating bright pink icypoles walking( actually more like strutting) back to their bright green towel that is under their bright yellow umbrella. There are boats cruising past, bars with music & food, a lush grassy park just behind where there are people playing volleyball, doing tai-chi and cute little naked European kids running around playing chasey.....So beautiful.

The music plays, the church bells chime and the children splash & play. The sun is warm & bright, the sky is blue and the water is cool & fresh....and the pebbles...well i just wear my thongs, even in the water...because LIFES A BEAUTIFUL BEACH & I LIKE IT JUST THE WAY IT IS!

How to kill a 'Mockingbird'

Well I'm not actually going to kill a real mockingbird, Iv never seen a mocking bird, I'm not sure what a mockingbird looks like. I assume how it got its name though is because it carefully chooses a weak victim, perches itself at its victims window each night and mercilessly mocks its victim with nasty hurtful comments. Taunting him in his sleep, infiltrating his victims subconscious. A very dangerous bird!

My mocking bird is more a metaphorical name for the (f**king) rooster next door. I'm sure this rooster has stood at my bedroom window with a little notepad, peering inside noting and recording my sleeping habits. The chickens in his coop must be really old, boring and bad roots because he has nothing better to do and finds it quite funny to f**k with my mind when I'm trying to sleep.

He has noted that Luca gets up at 7am to get ready for work, he has also noted that i like to sleep, also noting that i am woken up every morning by Luca, noting also that after Luca leaves for work i like to go back to sleep for a couple of hours because i read late into the night.....This is one clever bird. He pays attention and is very precise.

He starts his noise assault pretty early, around 4am. He warms up for a couple of hours before the games begin. Just before i am woken up by Luca....he stops. Luring me into this false sense of peace and quiet. The precise moment Luca leaves the bedroom and i lay my head back on the pillow to commence my beloved sleep....COCK - A -F**KING - DOODLE - DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. And this is no normal rooster sound. His voice is like the sound of rusty old brakes of a semitrailer being slammed on to miss hitting a cat, but they don't stop in time and run over the cat and then the sound of the screeching rusty old brakes and the screeching cat combine together to make this god awful sound!

Early one morning his constant noise actually infiltrated my dream. In my dream i was watching this weird looking woman (who i didnt know) and she was just standing there screaming the same god awful blood curdling sound.....disturbing enough to wake me up. As i began to wake up i realised the woman in my dream was making the same sound of the rooster or the rooster was making the same sound as the woman...Confusing for so early in the morning.
I had been clever enough to get myself some back-up...EARPLUGS! but i couldn't find my earplugs this particular morning. They were not in there normal spot on the bed side table behind the photo frame. So i got up and fumbled around the room in the dark like a drunk, blind seal trying to find them....but alas...it was to late, i was starting to wake up, and then....i was awake! DAMN IT! It was at this very moment, as i stood in the dark bedroom with a scowl on my pillow lined, scrunched up face, totally defeated as the rooster continued calling...HA HA.... I FREAKEN GOT YOU AGAIN...I ROCK...HA HA....that i decided i want to kill this merciless bird that continues to mock me.....

Well mock me all you like little bird because even though i don't know how to kill a 'mocking bird', I'm bigger and smarter than you. I have ten digits and opposable thumbs, can use a keyboard and know that if i type in 'HOW TO KILL A ROOSTER' into google that it will give me a long list of very precise instructions.....