(no subject)
Day five of the adventure in Genova. I'll try not to put pressure on myself to make a post about every single day, but since I automatically tend to take notes when I travel, I figured I could might as well jot down some of them here. Elisa is revising her Norwegian, so I have time for this before we head out to conquer one of the many museums that Genova has to offer. Sorry for the weird style. I was listening to The Hunger Games, they influenced my note taking.
(Oh, and to be clear - what I'm writing are the very spontaneous, very subjective reactions of someone from Fenno-Scandia landing in a latin culture context. There are no value judgements here, and I'd hate for anyone to read them as such.)
Landing at Orio al Serio. The first thing that lets me know that I'm definitely not in Kansas Finland anymore is just a matter of volume. There are more people. Everywhere. And everyone has something to say.
I start to feel a little cornered, and so I hurry to the bathroom, hoping to catch a moment to orient myself. I've been to Bergamo airport a handful of times before, so navigating isn't hard. I also realize that the locks on the bathroom stall doors which were broken the last two times I came through there, are still broken. This gives me a boost of confidence. This is familiar. I know what I'm doing. I got this.
The bus from Bergamo is packed, and it seems like everyone is on the phone. Either someone is calling them, or they're digging out their phones to call someone. I end up taking out my battered Nokia and sending my sister a message, just because I feel like I want to be part of the crowd.
The girl next to me is wearing her fair share of perfume. This could happen just as easily back home, so no big deal, but I'm already nursing a travel head ache, and this doesn't make it better. Travelling to a destination always hurts this way. There's always some ache or pain that springs up, out of tension or pressure or lack of sleep or food. It's never enough to incapacitate, just enough to bring your mood down a little. Just enough to make you acutely aware of the fact that you can't turn around and go home.
Still, once I get off at Milano Centrale, I don't even notice. All my attention goes to making my way through the station. Which I do. Effortlessly, even. Boy howdy, do I feel proud of myself when I sit down on the train towards Genova.
I keep hearing the word "questa"/"questo". Possibly because it's a word I recognise, or because that's something people say while looking for their seats.
It's not hard to notice when the train starts nearing the Genova region. The landscape changes surprisingly abruptly, and the tunnels become considerably more frequent. (My camera is no good, and I'm no good at using it, so I have no pictures to show, you're just going to have to take my word for it.) I remember that Genova has several train stations, and I clutch the little paper in my hand on which I've written "Genova Piazza Principe (P.P)", and I strain my ears for the announcement. My worst nightmare would be to have to ask someone for help, though I'm pretty sure I'm prepared if it comes down to it. Not grammatically correct, but close enough. (Scusi. Questo stazione, é Genova Principe?)
At first I think I recognize Elisa's house as the train enters Genova. A pink/beige apartment building, with green shutters, perched on the side of a mountain hill. Then I realize that I think they all look like Elisa's house. For a moment I miss lillannan terribly, because I'm sure we could spin this into a game or a joke of some sort. (Elisa lives in ALL the houses!)
I get off at Principe station. Elisa sent me a message telling me I'll have to wait, and that there's a snack bar by platform 11. I walk around it three times before telling myself to stop being a wuss, and walk in. (Walking into places you've never been is difficult, okay?)
I try to order at the counter, and I'm directed to a table.
I love Italian food, and desserts and coffees especially, but figuring out the system to order is difficult. I'm too shy to just ask, which makes the ordeal that much more embarrassing, because I need to shuffle around a good while before stepping up. If I didn't know that the coffee I'll get will be the best coffee in the world, it almost wouldn't be worth it. But it is. Oh, it is.
Looking around, I really wish I'd put on make up this morning. But then Elisa is there, and there's no time to focus on that. I follow her through the throng, and three buses later we get home. We spend the rest of the evening chatting over glorious, glorious food. She's convinced the weather is terrible, and I can only laugh. Tampere was -2 and snowing that morning. +10 feels like summer.
Day Two
I think it was Douglas Adams who once wrote about the awkwardness and difficulty related to trying to prepare breakfast in a kitchen that isn't your own. I think he should have added a paragraph on how nearly impossible it is when you're not only not in your own kitchen, but not even in your own country.
Elisa got up early for work, and I have the day to focus on my essay on Michel Houellebecq. I spend my morning in my very own special episode of Mr Bean. Starring me, and pot of water.
I'd taken one look at the coffee maker, and just known in my gut that touching it would result in disaster, so I opted for tea instead. I hesitate over the stove for what feels like hours (but wasn't more than a few minutes, I'm sure), until I'm broken out of my mind spiral by the sound of a bird. TRUU-TRUU.
This guy is looking at me through Elisa's balcony window. He(?) and his partner stay with me for most of the day, mostly occupied by building a nest, but stopping occasionally to coo at me. I don't think they appreciate me walking around spying on them.
The weather is misty and rainy, but still warm. I mainline tea, and get 1/3 through Houellebecq. It's a good day.
Elisa comes home in the evening, and we listen to the beginning of a podfic from Merlin fandom. (Link to be added later.) It's not my usual corner of the internet, but I'm impressed. My mind is now a pleasant jumble. The Hunger Games, Houellebecq's La Carte et le territoire, and the forever wonderful sound of fayjay. It's like having a cup of tea and blanket, but inside your head. My dreams are confused, to say the least.
Later on, we have pizza with some of Elisa's friends. There was a slight language barrier, but it wasn't an issue. I'm glad to realize I can hang on to the thread of a conversation, more or less, if I focus, and Elisa is a wonderful translator to boot. Her friends are fun and genuine, and above all very welcoming. I got to follow as they planned their trip to Istanbul, and even knowing that I'm off to the U.S in just a month, I can't help but sigh in envy. Turkey!
***
Ok. I ran out of notes. And the radio in the kitchen is playing a song that requires a sing along. Note that this post is unedited. I'll fix silly formatting later.
This entry was originally posted at http://unikorento.dreamwidth.org/37403.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
(Oh, and to be clear - what I'm writing are the very spontaneous, very subjective reactions of someone from Fenno-Scandia landing in a latin culture context. There are no value judgements here, and I'd hate for anyone to read them as such.)
Landing at Orio al Serio. The first thing that lets me know that I'm definitely not in Kansas Finland anymore is just a matter of volume. There are more people. Everywhere. And everyone has something to say.
I start to feel a little cornered, and so I hurry to the bathroom, hoping to catch a moment to orient myself. I've been to Bergamo airport a handful of times before, so navigating isn't hard. I also realize that the locks on the bathroom stall doors which were broken the last two times I came through there, are still broken. This gives me a boost of confidence. This is familiar. I know what I'm doing. I got this.
The bus from Bergamo is packed, and it seems like everyone is on the phone. Either someone is calling them, or they're digging out their phones to call someone. I end up taking out my battered Nokia and sending my sister a message, just because I feel like I want to be part of the crowd.
The girl next to me is wearing her fair share of perfume. This could happen just as easily back home, so no big deal, but I'm already nursing a travel head ache, and this doesn't make it better. Travelling to a destination always hurts this way. There's always some ache or pain that springs up, out of tension or pressure or lack of sleep or food. It's never enough to incapacitate, just enough to bring your mood down a little. Just enough to make you acutely aware of the fact that you can't turn around and go home.
Still, once I get off at Milano Centrale, I don't even notice. All my attention goes to making my way through the station. Which I do. Effortlessly, even. Boy howdy, do I feel proud of myself when I sit down on the train towards Genova.
I keep hearing the word "questa"/"questo". Possibly because it's a word I recognise, or because that's something people say while looking for their seats.
It's not hard to notice when the train starts nearing the Genova region. The landscape changes surprisingly abruptly, and the tunnels become considerably more frequent. (My camera is no good, and I'm no good at using it, so I have no pictures to show, you're just going to have to take my word for it.) I remember that Genova has several train stations, and I clutch the little paper in my hand on which I've written "Genova Piazza Principe (P.P)", and I strain my ears for the announcement. My worst nightmare would be to have to ask someone for help, though I'm pretty sure I'm prepared if it comes down to it. Not grammatically correct, but close enough. (Scusi. Questo stazione, é Genova Principe?)
At first I think I recognize Elisa's house as the train enters Genova. A pink/beige apartment building, with green shutters, perched on the side of a mountain hill. Then I realize that I think they all look like Elisa's house. For a moment I miss lillannan terribly, because I'm sure we could spin this into a game or a joke of some sort. (Elisa lives in ALL the houses!)
I get off at Principe station. Elisa sent me a message telling me I'll have to wait, and that there's a snack bar by platform 11. I walk around it three times before telling myself to stop being a wuss, and walk in. (Walking into places you've never been is difficult, okay?)
I try to order at the counter, and I'm directed to a table.
I love Italian food, and desserts and coffees especially, but figuring out the system to order is difficult. I'm too shy to just ask, which makes the ordeal that much more embarrassing, because I need to shuffle around a good while before stepping up. If I didn't know that the coffee I'll get will be the best coffee in the world, it almost wouldn't be worth it. But it is. Oh, it is.
Looking around, I really wish I'd put on make up this morning. But then Elisa is there, and there's no time to focus on that. I follow her through the throng, and three buses later we get home. We spend the rest of the evening chatting over glorious, glorious food. She's convinced the weather is terrible, and I can only laugh. Tampere was -2 and snowing that morning. +10 feels like summer.
Day Two
I think it was Douglas Adams who once wrote about the awkwardness and difficulty related to trying to prepare breakfast in a kitchen that isn't your own. I think he should have added a paragraph on how nearly impossible it is when you're not only not in your own kitchen, but not even in your own country.
Elisa got up early for work, and I have the day to focus on my essay on Michel Houellebecq. I spend my morning in my very own special episode of Mr Bean. Starring me, and pot of water.
I'd taken one look at the coffee maker, and just known in my gut that touching it would result in disaster, so I opted for tea instead. I hesitate over the stove for what feels like hours (but wasn't more than a few minutes, I'm sure), until I'm broken out of my mind spiral by the sound of a bird. TRUU-TRUU.
This guy is looking at me through Elisa's balcony window. He(?) and his partner stay with me for most of the day, mostly occupied by building a nest, but stopping occasionally to coo at me. I don't think they appreciate me walking around spying on them.
The weather is misty and rainy, but still warm. I mainline tea, and get 1/3 through Houellebecq. It's a good day.
Elisa comes home in the evening, and we listen to the beginning of a podfic from Merlin fandom. (Link to be added later.) It's not my usual corner of the internet, but I'm impressed. My mind is now a pleasant jumble. The Hunger Games, Houellebecq's La Carte et le territoire, and the forever wonderful sound of fayjay. It's like having a cup of tea and blanket, but inside your head. My dreams are confused, to say the least.
Later on, we have pizza with some of Elisa's friends. There was a slight language barrier, but it wasn't an issue. I'm glad to realize I can hang on to the thread of a conversation, more or less, if I focus, and Elisa is a wonderful translator to boot. Her friends are fun and genuine, and above all very welcoming. I got to follow as they planned their trip to Istanbul, and even knowing that I'm off to the U.S in just a month, I can't help but sigh in envy. Turkey!
***
Ok. I ran out of notes. And the radio in the kitchen is playing a song that requires a sing along. Note that this post is unedited. I'll fix silly formatting later.
This entry was originally posted at http://unikorento.dreamwidth.org/37403.html. Please comment there using OpenID.