new year, new name

Yesterday morning I found a letter in the mailbox from the Democrat Party, addressed to one Marisa Paola. The surname was right and the address too, so I have no idea where Paola comes in, but I appreciate the new name all the same. Thanks, signor Veltroni.

work in progress

On Valentine's day I'll have been here exactly 2 years. I don't feel as if anything has changed from 2006 on, though a lot has. Gone are the days when I was intimidated at the thought of the post office and, unable to remember the obscure names, resulted to pointing at the types of bread at the bakery.

It's still a process, all of it: everything I've learned is missing a more or less significant piece, either due to my own laziness or because 2 years is not nearly enough. Like this:

- I've learned the language, but still miss the in-my-sleep ability of using the subjunctive and the trickier articles correctly. Long conversations and official emails* give me away.

- I've also learned the dialect, though still not able to pass as a native. Also, the locals refuse to let me practice and laugh at me instead.

- Since I've switched from English to Italian as the everyday communication language, several friends are complaining that I'm neglecting their linguistic practice. I've had to start importing foreign friends for that purpose.

- Communication is still difficult on a much more complicated level than the linguistic one. I've still got to learn to keep my mouth shut and/or cover my direct statements with foggy spiral talk as is the custom here. What is normal in Estonia is brutal here and I only have to thank heavens for having friends who can forgive my bursts of rudeness.

- I'm a Veneto resident and refuse to apply for a residence permit on principle. It's not obligatory for EU citizens, but the municipality clerks aren't used to EU immigrants: first they give me a suspicious look, make a long phone call, then agree sulkily that my passport should suffice, then look surprised at the tiny circle of stars inside, ask: but is Estonia in the European Community??? I say: yes, for 4 years already. Then they make another long phone call before they believe me. Only then, after 15 minutes and with impatient people waiting in line behind my back, can we start talking about why I'm there. It's always the same.

- I'm completing a master program at Verona University, in Italian. Luckily they let me write the thesis in English (but who will read it?!).

- I know more of job interviews in Italy than in Estonia, never having worked 9-5 up there. This is getting strange. Also, I'm starting a new job next Monday, the first one where my foreign languages have no importance whatsoever. That should be fun.

- I've finally opened a bank account, though have no idea how to transfer anything through the super-equipped website of IWbank. The bank was something I worked hard to get around, because most of the little Italian banks have sky-high commissions and absurd opening hours. Now I just have an internet bank that has none of the simplicity of the SEB group site. We'll see how this turns out.

- I've only really learned to drive in the narrow country lanes of Alto-Vicentino. My driving licence had prepared me for the one-way streets of Kuressaare, the town without a single traffic light and with perfectly level streets. Here I have mountain-training, uphill parking training and getting-there-fast shortcuts training, courtesy of my patient teacher and role model Riccardo. Driving back in Kuressaare this winter felt unbearably bland in comparison. The traffic in the centre of Vicenza on a rainy night gives me the creeps though and I still haven't mastered the subtle art of stopping the car exactly at the distance of my arm's length at the highway entrance.

- I'm also still not used to seeing movies dubbed into Italian. It's also a surprise to see movies that are originally in Italian - suddenly everything sounds right! Suddenly the actors talk naturally! What a revelation! Also, the fake voices of the dubbers seem even worse in comparison. Italians say that it's professional and whatnot. The truth is that women in American movies never have the high haughty voices of the Italian actresses and the most self-assured macho voice of John Travolta still doesn't compare to what the Italians make him sound like. Top this with bad translation, "you" turned into "Lei", and all the "fuck's" into "accidenti"** and the result is two movies of which I see one and hear the other. It makes my head ache.

Edit: Also, I've grown my hair long out of necessity. I trust no Italian hairdresser: I'm faithfully visiting mine in Tartu twice a year. Several attempts at foreign haircuts in Lithuania, Czech Republic and Turkey have convinced me there is no better. And then, of course, I couldn't afford a haircut in Italy anyway.


* grazie, Saverio :)
** "accidenti" is something that auntie Muriel might say. Whoopsie Daisy.

How to survive in Venice: a handy guide for ignorant foreigners

There are some basic rules to visiting that place. I will put them in a row one by one to avoid the vague musings that might come out otherwise (see below what happened last time I tried to write about Venice).

1. Drop your ideals in a bin. This is not a dream city. It is a city. Think what you want of it, but you can be sure that the houses are not really made of gold, nobody really uses the gondolas to get around and the gondolieri will never, and I mean never sing O Sole Mio to you while you glide romantically down the canal at sunset.

2. Want to eat? Get as far away from St Mark's square as you can. West, if possible. There are some reasonable bars off the tourist centre, and, if you're lucky, you might find a few of the well-hidden supermarkets too. In any case avoid the restaurants where slick English-speaking young men offer you a fixed price deal at the front door.

Also, there is a strict rhythm and unimaginable amounts of unwritten rules to eating in Italy. The rhythm is easy enough:

- morning - 10.30/11.00: breakfast: cappuccino and a croissant or cookies usually. In any case NOT a ham sandwich or scrambled eggs. This doesn't mean you're not allowed to munch on a sausage in your hotel room... if you really want to.
- 11.00 - 12.30/13.00: aperitifs: white wine, Prosecco or Spritz. You can skip that one, but you'll definitely see groups of senior gentlemen at it in small around-the-corner bars.
- 13.00 - 14.30: LUNCH. This is important, because after 3 o'clock you'll have trouble finding a local-oriented restaurant that will serve you more than a tiny sandwich. Also, lunch is the most important meal of the day for several reasons. Mostly, you'll note, because of your Italian-style one-biscuit breakfast you'll be starving by that time. A full lunch is 3 courses: primo (pasta, soup or rice), secondo (meat or fish) and dessert or fruit, though precious few people eat a full lunch out. Get a first dish, they cost less.
- 14.00/14.30 - 15.30: digesting. Venetians return to work. (South Italy prepares to eat.) There is no siesta as such in the North. In small towns where people return home to eat (and depending on the nature of their work) the lunch break can stretch from midday to 3 pm, in which case the working day finishes around 7 in the evening.
- 16.00: you can think about a little merendina, a snack. Still no restaurants serving food.
- 18.30 - 20.00: aperitifs*. This time it's serious. You should get one. Or two.
- 19.30 - 21.30: dinner. This is when people really go out to eat. Also, single-course meals such as pizza or bruschette are only acceptable for dinner, so take your chance. Eating dinner out will invariably cost you a coperto, too (see below).
- 23.00 or before bed: herb tea or hot milk.

That much about the rhythm... the rules are a little more complex, but just don't order cappuccino after midday, don't put parmesan on seafood and you'll be fine.

3. Want to drink? Same thing: get away from San Marco. You might be tempted by Caffé Florian, the very first cafeteria to open in Europe (1720), or another of the fancy places right at the square, but enter at your own risk. The coffee will cost you 5, the milk in it 2, the chair 3 and the music 5 euros or so. In a normal bar the price of an espresso is fixed to 0.85 - 1 euro. Wine should also be ordered with care, though the presence and concentration of tourists at any given place is usually an indicator of the fairness of the prices. By the way, wine is always connected to food in Italy, so drinking as the North does - just for the fun of pouring it down - is incomprehensible; getting drunk during dinner is embarrassing. (This doesn't mean the Italians don't have their fun though.)

4. Sitting down. Remember that the chairs will cost you. There is such a thing as coperto in the Italian restaurants that literally means "covered" and is indeed a quite obscure addition to any restaurant bill. Technically it is simply service charge. It solves a lot of problems, such as ethical (for you: deciding whether and how much to tip) and financial (um... for the restaurant owner). Coperto usually ranges from 1.50 to 2 euros, but in Venice it has been developed to an art form (see previous rule). Thus, when the barman smiles at you nicely and asks you to sit down, be wary and try to get a look at the menu first: the coperto will be written in tiny letters at the bottom of the second page. Some restaurants are honest enough and write down their "bar" and "table" prices outside - they will differ considerably. In the more tranquil areas of Venice the coperto will probably not be an issue and is applied only when you eat and are served at the table (in other words, in a situation where you might consider tipping in other countries). You shouldn't, in theory, be asked to pay for service if you have simply rested your left buttock on a chair for five minutes while eating a sandwich or drinking an aperitif.

5. Forget the gondolas. The guys who row people around in them are already so rich they couldn't care less if you get your romantic ride on the Gran Canale or not. One ride costs 80 euros and, accordingly, 8 normal-weight people are able to squeeze inside. If you have your mind set on crossing the Gran Canale though (best views in town!), you can also get a traghetto (ferry) for 6 euros. The same price applies for most routes, including the surrounding islands.**

6. And finally: get lost. Prepare to walk considerable distances. It's the only way of discovering Venice, though in most cases getting lost is not completely voluntary. If you prefer knowing where you're going or steering steadily towards the train station to get away from the place, just follow the yellow signs above your head on strategic street corners. 'Ferrovia' stands for the train station. 'Rialto' stands for the Rialto bridge.


Good luck.


* It seems that aperitifs are such a very Veneto thing that going south it exists less and less. In Florence an aperitif means a snack buffet that costs accordingly.
** the 6-euro traghetto ticket costs 1 euro for Venetians and anyone resident in the region. Understandable, though a little harsh, just like everything that the tourists are expected to pay in Venice. Now they opened a locals-only line (nr 3). If you're turned back, it's because the Venetians are happy to separate themselves from chattering tourists groups. Well, we knew that already.

What is it that you want Venice to be?

There are hundreds and hundreds of well-meaning tourists stepping off trains and buses at Venice each day. They are hoping for... something extraordinary, at least, because it is Venice. They will be hard put to describe exactly what it is they are looking for, but it all has something to do with vague romance, the glory of times past and indescribable beauty. They think of the San Marco* square, of the gondolas and the Carnival**; but definitely not the pigeons, the restaurant prices or the hordes of other tourists looking for their fill of digital photos and tacky souvenirs.

Some are exhilarated, willing to suffer the minor inconveniences and pay the price, because of what Venice means: it's the crown jewel of every traveller, the perfect destination! Others are disappointed or confused. The unmistakable atmosphere of a cemetery is conspicuously present in the streets where every stone has been present for centuries. The density of people in the narrow streets of the tourist belt between the train station and San Marco will give claustrophobic attacks to contact-conscious Nordics. And then, of course, there is the obvious state of neglect into which the city has fallen in the last 200 years or more. It is this, more than anything else, what shocked me at first. La Serenissima, the beauty and the biggest maritime power of all the Mediterranean once, is feeding on the scraps of its glory - the decadent hotels, the murky green canals, the tourist traps. Is it true there are people still living here?

It turns out that there are. And they are not all gondolieri, either. There is life behind these dilapidated windows, though your average Venetian is heartily sick of the tourist groups that roam the streets and consider them not too different from the bands of pigeons ruining the city with their infested presence. Of course, Venetians have their own Venice, quite hidden from random eyes*. It is this city that is truly fascinating. It is possible to catch a glimpse if you wander off and find a fruit market.

I had to understand this idea of an alive Venice before I could appreciate the place. Then I could take it as it really was - alright, it's a little dirty, it's not perfect, but why should it be perfect? The would-be-romantic gondolieri who teach dirty songs to innocent Japanese are not much different from any guy around the world who rips tourists off for living: it does get dull after a while. It's even possible to avoid the crowds: I learned to walk the long way around.


* of course, often these photos of San Marco are made by professional photographers who have taken the trouble to get up at sunrise to get a shot at the square before the crowds start butting in. Beautiful, but unrealistic.
** Carnival is one of the most characteristic periods of the year for Venice and the mid-winter high season for the hotels, all for being able to see people in elaborate baroque costumes, wearing some of the traditional masks. Anyone looking to enter by train from the mainland will have to go through a compulsory all-body squeeze if they are to fit in the train at all.
* much like Tartu the university town and Tartu the normal town (mitteakadeemiline Tartu) exist in two parallel universes that rarely cross.

solidarity wow

The North and South of Italy are at it again: Naples is drowning in garbage and asking other regions to take in their stuff (to be disposed of 1000km from the original place? way to go...). Veneto has refused and not only - the region is financing TV spots in Germany, pointing out that Veneto is not Naples and there are no garbage issues in the North, so as to inform the tourists that otherwise would be scared into going to Spain instead*.

This shows some true Veneto spirit, I must say. In literature or drama, a stereotypical character speaking Venetian dialect is almost invariably a stingy merchant. It's not that far off - the people around here have always found a way to muddle through even in the worst of times and don't look well on others who don't seem to make as much effort. This is where the discord begins: in Venetian eyes the Neapolitans simply don't try hard enough. And when the president of the region is blamed of not being solidary, well, your average signor Toni will not care about not being nice: "Eloora, cosa xé che bisogna fare? Gà da svegliarse fora, no?**"

English Corriere della Sera on the matter

* I'll be thankful for a link to one of these clips. As of today none were to be found online.
** "So what's to it? Gotta snap ou' of it, yaknow..."

Where am I?

I slept all the way through my flight and am consequently having trouble understanding where I am. I left the cold and gloomy Estonia only to arrive in cold, gloomy and wet Italy. Where are the benefits of the Mediterranean?

I'm also weighed down with a huge amount of materials on cross-cultural communication for my thesis, of which I will scorn some and apply others. It's a lot of fun, though it does make me think too much of anything the people say or do on the street: each action becomes an expression of underlying cultural values. I'll definitely be coming back to all that in the next months.


Estonia is strange in the winter, too. I had a little shock arriving, but got used to it quite fast and then it felt all sweet and homelike again. The truth is that though in the summer the life is beautiful and the Estonians become social enough to truly give Italians a run for their money, the winter is a depressive 8-month gloom. Some people shoot themselves when they can't face it anymore. Others, in order to survive, will construct a personal cocoon consisting of close friends and family, their favourite pubs, visits to the spa, homely tea rituals and simply shut out everything else as if it didn't exist (this is why nobody looks each other in the eye on the street). Occasionally the reality will catch up with them at the worst moments: at the 10 o'clock twilight of a a hung-over morning, or while carrying home heavy shopping bags in the perpetual darkness. At these moments the only thing to do is to pamper oneself, hoping that spring comes soon.

The Italians don't shut themselves away for the winter, though in clammy days like this one the piazzas stay empty and no-one feels like an aperitif. I'm feeling especially cocoon-like after my stint in the north and can't be convinced to leave the cosiness of my tea-cup and heater. Today, everything outside of home can wait for spring.

Documentation

When my Italian friends see my Italian identity card, they are positively surprised: I didn't know they give these to foreigners too!

When my Estonian friends see my Italian identity card, they are surprised and say: but isn't Italy supposed to be a developed country?

My Italian identity card is made of paper.

It's nicely patterned, complete with gaps for hair colour, fingerprint and home address. But, effectively, yes, it's a piece of paper folded in soft plastic.

My Estonian identity card doesn't include any of this data, but does include a signature and a smart chip. The chip includes 3 library cards and can be used to sign documents and vote at a distance*.

The interesting part is that though the Italian ID card seems so unconvincing to foreigners, often it is the only identification that people have. Italians make a fuss each time they decide to travel outside the EU and have to apply and pay for a passport. Making a passport costs astronomic amounts of money and/or time. I've even heard of 70 euro for a passport if you want it faster than normal... seems like it might cost less on the black market.

I guess after a while Estonians won't be too attached to their passports either, as all the 10 EU member states who joined in 2004 are part of the Schengen area now. The land and sea borders are already open. The airports will adapt in the end of March when they change to summer season. That's quite convenient, though most of the border guards are relocated for different jobs and the only Estonian non-Schengen border (east; Russia) suddenly has a lot of guards. I do wonder what Czech Republic did with their border guards...


* the voting business is theoretical - I missed the last referendum because I couldn't install the card reader driver on Linux. I hear it works though.

Natale 2

Second Christmas in Italy, and it was as Italian as expected: we decorated our 25-year-old Christmas tree up nicely, ate copious amounts of panettone and relaxed properly. But there's one thing that I still can't get used to - that's the social side of Christmas: the streets full of people and bars finishing all kinds of wine on Christmas Eve. Around here everyone just stays home with family or the respective boy/girlfriend and doesn't get out for seeing people before the 26th unless they're very close friends. In Italy, Christmas lunch is held with the immediate family and subsequent meals with various aunts and uncles, fitting a fair amount of friends and acquaintances in the middle. That's quite a run. Luckily I only have one family to visit. My feeling of being an inward northerner increased with each person Riccardo knew and congratulated. Well, the custom of giving the best wishes ("Auguri!") is usually accompanied by a handshake and this would be perfect for me. I like handshakes very much. Instead, because I'm a girl, I was expected to approach the people with each of my cheeks in turn and imitate kisses. This is an awkward business at the best of times, especially when both kissers wear glasses, but with people I had never seen before... difficult.

Any northerner who has been to Italy is probably quite familiar with the inner fight: is a friendly smile enough? should I shake hands? what if I'm supposed to actually touch faces? which cheek first?! An Englishman trying to go along with the most usual Italian hello-how-are-you kiss looks embarrassingly indecent: instead of performing with lukewarm/friendly affection they actually plant a furtive wet semi-erotic kiss on the cheeks of the unsuspecting Italian (almost always a woman) as though they had lost in the bottle game and had to do it on a dare. It would be funny if it wasn't so sad.

Hugging, the standard greeting in Estonia for friends, is a different issue. Italians might feel quite awkward if someone less than a very good friend would start hugging them all of a sudden. It's not easy to determine where are the limits of the various kinds of greetings, so the only foolproof way is to follow the locals. Lucky that Christmas is over...

The Alps are the limit

I went to Austria last weekend. It's strange to think that Innsbruck is only 4 hours away and I've never taken the chance. The difference between North Italy and Tirol was simply striking: just a few hours of driving had taken me to a place where it snows continually, people make gingerbreads for Christmas, use the sauna and eat heavy breakfasts. The fact that everyone was speaking rich Tirol-German didn't even seem to matter. I felt right at home. There is more cultural distance between Vicenza and Innsbruck than the latter and Tallinn. Who would have thought?

Or maybe I'm just homesick?

We stayed in a bed&breakfast at Seefeld. The house was exactly what one might expect, thinking of the Alps, Austria, the winter. Cosy. Breathtaking view all around. Interiours bordering on kitsch, but somehow sweet all the same with the endless teddy bears, doilies and Christmas decorations. It was almost hobbit-like with all the comfort and tranquility. We arrived late, so the landlady left the keys on the door for us. Just like that!

Here December doesn't mean snow, but fogs. I leave from Valdagno each morning with a clear blue sky and find a dense opaque wall of fog halfway down to the plains. Some of the evenings the visibility is so bad that the only reason I manage to weave my way through the twisting roads is that I know them by heart. Halfway back up again towards the mountains the fog disappears though, and the stars blink down in the cold night. But the winter in Italy is not gratifying. There are none of those rare evenings that make the Nordic winter worthwhile: the ones when it snows slowly and the quiet makes bitter people feel at peace with the world. Instead there are bright days, the bare trees full of persimmons like orange lamps and no real need for a woollen hat. That's obviously very nice, but all this, and the panettone or nativity scenes have nothing to do with Christmas in my mind. I need to stock up on other accessories, such as gingerbreads from IKEA...

I'll be landing in Tallinn at 16.00 on the 27th.

Two Italies

or: "Oh, that's all the way down in Terronia, that is..."

Estonia is a small country roughly the size of Denmark. It's possible to drive from one side of the mainland to another in 4 hours. The population is so small (1,4 million) that it is a piece of cake to set up complicated telecommunications-systems years ahead of other countries. Yet there are a few dialect areas and enough differences between different parts of the country to create a system of labelling - the islanders, the yuppies from Tallinn, the hippies from Tartu, the mulgid, the vòrokesed, the setod (the two latter ones have distinct dialects and traditions of their own). If this is possible in a country as small as this, what does it mean for Italy, long, mountainous and historically divided as it is?

Mostly it means that they have a hard time understanding each other. More specifically it means that for example:
- each small town competes with the other small town 10 km away - which is better, Valdagno or Schio?
- the next province is like another world: ah, the veronesi, they're all strange...*
- no-one likes the milanesi because they're city folk
- the north doesn't like the south because their economy is non-existent and they look lazy;
- the south dislikes the north because they work their life away and think themselves better because of it;
- the veneziani call everyone else land-folk, dirty shoes etc;
- the trentini aren't considered Italian as they're too far north;
- the sardi neither - they're too far from the mainland;
- the napoletani must be the strangest of all the Italians, with their passion, good food, dirty city and high crime rate.
And so on and so forth. A few kilometres here or there will change not only the accent, but the dialect to a considerable degree. It's not only the language that is different - it's proper cultural differences we're talking about. Sicily is a mix of local, Roman, Arabic and Normandian cultures. Rome... well, we've all studied that in history. Genovese have their own great sea odysseys. Venice has it's mix of Byzantium merchant culture, Armenian, Austrian and whatever was roaming the Mediterranean at that time, plus the pride of a thousand-year republic throughout the middle ages. Tuscany has its glory of the rolling hills and grape fields as the prototype of the fictional idyllic Italy (while Napoli is the prototype of the fictional non-idyllic crime-infested dirty Italy).

All these differences are to be expected, considering the geography of the country and the long history of each province being governed by its own dynasty. These differences are no laughing matter. The politics is directly influenced by the northerners who would like to separate from the south and roll in the money they think they'd have this way. The south lives its life like years and years before, not hurrying for much anything and will hardly be able to understand the frantic Veneti who work their lives away without (apparently) being able to enjoy it enough. They say that even though the south wouldn't have any public money to manage themselves without the north... but then again, the north wouldn't have any pizza-chefs or barbers without the south.

North and South recalls something I've grown to consider fundamental if one is to understand how anything works in Italy: the underlying duality of everything. Everything. If there is a rule to something, there are also a series of counter-rules and exceptions. It's forbidden to have cappuccino in the afternoon, but it's allowed if it's cold outside or if you're just strange like that, but in any case a macchiatone is better. It's bad tone to let oneself go and be rude to someone without bothering to hide the insult between lines, but it's allowed and completely normal in traffic, but in any case "Lei" (official form of address) rather than "tu" should be used**. And so on and so forth. This is why the foreigners will hardly even scratch the surface when they spend a nice sightseeing week in Italy. As B. Severgnini puts it: there are two Italys. There is Italy - what the foreigners think Italy is like - all rolling hills, wine and small boys with black curly hair; and then there is Italia that is a mess and has nothing whatsoever to do with Italy.


* Venexiani - gran signori
Padovani - gran dotori
Vixentini - magnagati,
Veronesi - tuti mati...
(Venetians - all great lords; Paduans - great doctors; Vicentians - eating cats, Veronese - they're all mad...)

** this would sound like something along the lines of: "You, sir, are the biggest ass I've ever met" or "You, mister, are an unfortunate dimwit". Cursing in traffic often needs to be so fast that no form of address can really be used, in which case everyone understands "Lei" to be implicitly included in the "Coglione!" shouted out the window of a passing car.