Big One, Innit

G’day chaps, long time no see. That’s my fault really, can’t pass the blame anywhere else there. Well my fabric-thin excuses go along the lines of Jesolo Wi-Fi is broken, internet costs too much money and I’m poor, I’ve been really busy and finally, this is really quite hard to write sometimes and I’m not quite the creative genius I may have marketed myself as.
Half of the above is rubbish, but please believe me, it isn’t easy to stay in touch here, the internet is still a relatively new invention to Italy and the availability of access is shocking for a country so supposedly developed.
I have a lot to cover in this instalment (well , two months basically) and I’m going to do my best to be concise, coherent and cogent (ooh, it’s like doing my GCSE’s again), as well as give you the basic outline of the plot of my currently bizarre life. So, I left on a really badly constructed cliffhanger from the last blog, I suppose I’d best finish it...
Anybody who has followed this blog since last summer, or even since the Rome escapades, may recall a young lady named Janica, who I had a very unorthodox relationship with last summer, ending in heartbreak all round. Then, when I returned to Italy in January it felt quite empty without her, and I couldn’t help but connecting everything in the Veneto with her, as I had been almost everywhere with her. By the time of my triumphant return I had been working hard to forget her for 7 months, furthermore, she was living in England by this time (with her boyfriend), and I was here to take Italy over for myself.
So, who was the old friend that I saw before meeting Alice after work? Why, Janica, of course. She was back for some exams and unfortunately both of us are strangers to common-sense and wondered what the harm in meeting up could be. We only had 10 minutes together before Alice finished work, where we did that awkward catching up that is only possible between people who have been intimate together and are no longer, but it was only a couple of minutes before we had slipped into making silly jokes, laughing about everything and getting on far too well. Was this a portent of things to come?
I’d met her at the old bus station, Piazza Picchi (it only had a couple of weeks left, before it became a coach park, not really a massive change, or particularly relevant, but detail is the something. Damn, I can’t remember the quote), where it was strange to see her get off the bus, I don’t think my brain or body quite knew what it was thinking or doing. I’d heard from her about 3 or 4 weeks beforehand, where she’d told me that in England she’d gotten fat, and it was actually quite disappointing to see her petite figure get off that coach and remain petite. It turns out she’s a woman and she’d gotten ‘fat’. I never will understand.
The walk was only about 10 minutes, it was a nice little stroll in which the flirtation feelers were put out, testing the waters, but not at all strongly and the conclusion that we both came to very quickly is that we were doing quite well at this ‘friends’ thing (and in fact our entire year would have been much easier if we had been content to stick at that from the beginning).
So we dropped in at Pegasus, where Alice works, and then the three of us headed to L’Avana, the bar where Ale (housemate) works. It’s a great bar, very chilled out, easy going, and as always, it’s brilliant to know the barman, the service is always better. Here, I’m afraid to say, with Janica, my willpower collapsed (very willingly) and before I knew it I had a Spritz Aperol in front of me. I hadn’t had Spritz for months, it is the quintessential drink of Jesolo, to remind of last summer and to drink when one is hot and needs to relax, and before it could be stopped it was gone, and another one appeared. That, my friends, is how I started drinking again, although at the moment everything is very much under control and it is only social and only occasionally. If, through my writings, anyone is concerned that I appear to be hitting it too hard again - please say, this is why friends exist, and especially for someone as fallible me (in fairness there will be an incident later on in the entry where the drinking gets out of control, but that has been dealt with. Honest). But right now...it’s nice to be able to socialise with my friends in a relaxed fashion rather than being held back and conspicuously so.
The night with Janica was good, however it was short and also we didn’t flirt in the way that we had done before, and I must say that half way through the evening I was actually beginning to think that maybe we had a chance of a normal friendship. When, however, she said that she would be back in Italy for 3 days the next month, my heart leapt, knowing that I would see her again, and I realised I was just as afflicted as before, although at least this time I had a bit more dignity with it all. She left at about 10pm, and was flying home the next day, so that was very much that and I was content to have her buzzing round my empty head for the next few weeks.
For the next week I was trying to spend as little money as possible, sort out my Codice Fiscale (NI number), find out when I’d get my own room (sharing a room with Alice was infuriating, I need my own space), and generally keep myself occupied until work started. Until work started it wasn’t a particularly eventful couple of weeks, more notable for not doing anything (being frugal) and studying my Italian grammar books (horrendous). I talk of being frugal, it was being a student again, I literally lived off spaghetti and bread, drank tap-water (which is the equivalent of being Ethiopian here) and kept away from the bright lights of the shops, however tempting their deliciously flamboyant clothing may be, or shiny objects not for the likes of me.
The Reps arrived on the last weekend of April and that is when the training began and I finally got to do some work - however unlike last season where we did all of the trips and had a full week, this year there was only 2 days - which was pants for me because it meant sod all money, but also because I didn’t get a real chance to ease myself into working and refresh on the trips.
There are two guides who permanently contracted - myself and Stefano, and then there is an on-demand guide, who is called for when we are really busy, Alessandro (I think it’s a rule that every other Italian male must be named Alessandro). Stefano worked for Atlas last year and we were mates, so it was great to see him again - he’s half-Italian, half-Glaswegian, which has exactly the accent you would imagine, and fantastic company (and someone who I have passed many a spare hour on excursions sipping on Spritz and talking about the three things that matter to an average Italian male - Sport, Women & Politics). Alessandro is only 20, studied in England for a few months, is far too attractive (girls fall over when he walks past, not fair) and is training to become a pilot, however needed work for the summer. Like every job in Italy he got it through who he knew - his father is friends with the MD of our company, Stef and myself are no exceptions - Stefano’s Ma is good friends with the longest serving guide in Jesolo, who knows the MD, whilst I worked last year in the same office so became friends with everyone. Whilst in principle I disagree with it and think that meritocracy is a far better system than nepotism, I’m grateful for having the job, and if I’m someone who benefits I won’t be the person to upend the system. God, what a hypocrite I’ve become. Actually, I think I’m just becoming more of a realist. Wherever you are in the world it is ‘who you know’, whether you like it or not, and you can spend your time sitting around moaning that you degree or qualifications entitle you to this or that, or you can get up off your behind and play the game.
I truly love my job, it is an amazing job to have and I cannot believe that anyone is stupid enough to pay me to do it. As Mother so eloquently put it last year: “Of course it’s the perfect job for you - it’s history and showing off!” But really, it is perfect for me, and something I’ve taken to incredibly well, I love being able to share the passion for this area with anyone daft enough to listen, especially when it usually involves a free lunch and ice cream for me.
The training was only two days, which was to Portarosa and Pirano in Slovenia, returning via Trieste (back in Italy), whilst the second day was Venice and the Islands of the Lagoon. Portarosa is a dive, so we decided to cut that from the excursion, however Pirano is a gorgeous seaside town, very (and atypically) Mediterranean in its character and style, with terracotta roof-tiles stretching across, and most bizarrely an exact replica of the Campanile bell tower (of Venice) on a hill, identical bar the scale - it’s about 1/5th of the size. On the excursion I guided last week I actually went up the tower in my spare time - it is truly terrifying. Unlike the Campanile in Venice there is no lift, there is instead a wooden staircase that has been made by retired Blue Peter presenters out of matchsticks and toilet-roll tubes. IT was only when I was half way up that I realised that I was throwing my life away for a view here, but I fought through and made it to the top. There I nearly got shat on by a pigeon which took away some of the magic of the atmosphere and view.
It is replete, as anywhere listed as ‘quaint’ or ‘scenic’ must be, with winding cobbled streets, as well as stunning views of the Slovenian, Croatian and Italian coasts, all stretching along the Istrian Peninsular. Sadly, however, it was a brutish day and the weather didn’t do the place any favours - although unlike the reps who were being rather sulky, unimpressed and unenthusiastic, I could at least see the potential in the place. We returned to Italy via Duty Free, where all the joking, choking smokers (cheers, Lennon) purchased their ciggies, whilst I settled on the cheapest Mars Bars I’ve ever seen in Europe. Easily pleased.
Trieste is a peculiar city to visit, in that it is a mishmash of the modern and historic, but more so than any other place I’ve visited in Italy. This is mostly because the centro storico was impossible to preserve after the bombing of the Second World War and places needed to be built or repaired. It’s the second largest port in Italy (after Genova), however the largest on the Adriatic, as well as being responsible for all of Austria’s commercial and industrial shipping. It is, therefore, a huge sprawling dock along the sea front, surrounded by huge hills (with a glass pyramid on one of them, which I have since found out is a church, inaugurated by Pope John, the one before Pope John Paul [insert Beatles joke here]), and then little pockets of history sprinkled over the city. For example, there is a Roman Theatre sandwiched between a 1970’s apartment block and a Renaissance church. It makes no sense! It is such a large city as well as having such an unusual past (it was the last place to join Italy, after WWII it was held by the UN until 1954, when it was deemed stable enough to rejoin the rest of the country) that I think that has been ignored.
It was popular with celebs in the 19th Century, including most notable James Joyce and Sigmund Freud. Nowadays it is like any Italian city, large, sprawling, tabbacchi’s and bars as well as designer shops, yet still with the kind of beauty that can only be found in Italy.
For anyone who has known me for any length of time, they will know that I often struggle to be happy and that it something I have frequently been very unsuccessful at. It is with relief that I can tell you that I think I’ve finally managed to do something about this.
After doing the training I was walking back home, from the supermarket with some grub, in the sunshine and just passing Piazza Drago. I looked around me and started grinning like an inane fool, and were anybody to stop me and ask why, my response would have been simple: I chose this. It has all worked out, my great plan has come to fruition and finally I have made a success of something (on my own terms). I could have been a million different things by now (lawyer, barman, salesman, supermarket checkout boy) and there are times when my life has seemed so far out of my control it has been unbelievable frustrating, but now I know it isn’t. I chose to give things up to come to Italy the first time, and then the second time it was part of the plan, which nearly got lost with the way things were going in England, but as I was walking down that street, shopping in hand, I finally felt vindicated and knew that I had done the right thing. It makes me know that I’m getting better and that my head is not the whole world, there are bigger things out there. I also did something very disturbing whilst walking back - I decided to have a little chat with God. Which is disturbing what with my complete lack of faith in His existence, and thus what can only be described as on the onset of paranoid schizophrenia. Meh, it’s a new one to add to the list.
Being back in Italy is wonderful, whether it is the food and the drink, or the friends and the people. It was really quite disturbing to find out that the reps hate Jesolo - but that’s because they have worked other places and don’t understand how unique it is. You don’t get treated like royalty as a rep here, because unlike Spain and Greece, British tourists are 0.01% of the visitors (really), and if you don’t make an effort to learn the language the people don’t try with you either (fair enough). I love this place, I love the fact that the community is small and that the friends you make here love you and treat you as family from day one, which is very refreshing.
Anyhow, I got distracted from training. Venice and the Islands was like it always is and if you want a better report then check out the descriptions from last year. The only difference is that (sadly) we don’t go to San Francesco anymore, instead we have Murano back (which is so-so).
The downside this year is that the season has been incredibly slow to start, which combined with the fact that because the Reps got here later this year meaning the training was in the last week of April, meaning that I didn’t get paid until 7 weeks after I arrived in Italy. Normally tips are enough to live off, however as it was a slow start I haven’t been working every day, and if I have I’ve not had enough people to tip greatly. As a result, I have eaten nothing but bread and spaghetti for three weeks, with the exception of once or twice a week when I’ll get a free lunch with work (for taking people in a restaurant), where I stock up on my greens. I actually vowed to myself that I will never be this poor again, and I mean it. I’m done with being a student, it’s time to move on and actually save and have some money to fall back on. I’m getting paid more doing this job than I’ve ever been paid before in my life, so I’m going to take advantage of it. Actually, I say that, I have found out that my contract pays me for the days I’ve worked, so when I’ve not worked 5 days a week it is my holiday pay that fills out the extras. That is almost used up, so I’ll be working September for free, definitely, and probably a bit of August. It’s nice when you get shafted, eh? I currently work an average of 3 days a week, we just don’t have the arrival numbers, or when we do the Reps just cannot sell enough to them. The third week I actually only worked one morning! That’s impossible to live off, luckily now, things have improved a bit, but I’m constantly losing ways of making money - due to health and safety I’m not allowed to sell Gondola’s now, which effectively loses me €130 a week now. I love actually doing my job, but it’s got to the stage where I am avoiding the office just to stop falling out with people.
Ok, back to the narrative. Work, when it was available, kept me busy, as did my studying Italian, which finally paid off and after about 2 weeks I could suddenly talk the language again (but what a frustrating two weeks it was). My guitar had arrived, so I at least had an outlet for the parts of life that weren’t quite as peachy as expected (sharing a room with Alice, for example), and I also started to become a bit more productive with the songwriting again, which was much needed. I think the change of surroundings gave me a bit of a creative kick-start.
Whilst each day seemed to take forever, it was suddenly a month since Janica had been in town, which meant that she was returning soon, and I confess I got giddy in the head at this prospect. There was a slight problem in that the day before she was due to return my phone died. I went a couple of days without a phone, which is impossible now (seriously, it’s my alarm clock, my method of communication with the entire world - it sickened me to see how dependent I’ve become), and then spent pretty much the last of my precious money on the cheapest (and really rather tough) phone that money could buy. I then found that I had a couple of messages from Janica - along the lines of ‘fine, if you don’t reply I guess you don’t want to see me...maybe we’re not friends’ or something similar. It turned out that she had been trying to get hold of me since landing the evening before and that what had been technical problems was taken for nonchalance on my part, which it really wasn’t. There are times text-messages can go to hell, and a phonecall is just plain easier, so I rang her, straightened things out (it turned out she’d gotten a bit drunk when she’d sent them, which did explain the times on the messages) and we arranged to see each other, as it turns out she was having dinner with Alice at our place that evening anyhow, so I decided to join. What?! It’s ok, Alice could chaperone...
Now last time I met Janica I told you that we didn’t flirt (that much) and that we were definitely in the ‘friends zone’. As soon as our eyes met we realised we were very much out of that zone, and as is always the case with that damned woman, as soon as she opened her mouth I fell completely in love with her again. I couldn’t believe it, I could not believe my mind and body were so weak - how is it capable that around certain people we lose all control of ourselves, even the chemicals and hormones in our bodies fight us and make us weak? By this time it had been 9 months since I had last kissed her or we had been involved with any intimacy, and during that 9 months we had really grown apart as friends, a couple of bitchy emails, drunken phonecalls - the usual. During this evening it was fantastic, we just reconnected, suddenly our sense of humours were realigned, we talked about art (which pissed Alice off, but hell, you can’t please the Philistines), music, England, pretty much everything but her boyfriend. Then the guitar came out - Janica was particularly special to me because I taught her how to play guitar and she’s actually carried on learning, but as with any girl that I’ve been out with for me than, well a day, there were a couple of songs written for her, but one in specific that before I could stop myself I started playing. Obviously Alice had no idea, but Janica clocked it straight away and then those damn brown eyes were on mine and I was once again a helpless little boy.
We ate our dinner, seafood and pasta, which was satisfactory but nothing to write home about (hold on, isn’t that what I’m doing?). It was actually one of the disappointing sides of Italy is that the young people can’t cook to save their lives, it’s all frozen or out of packets, pretty much the same as the UK (although quite a bit healthier, on the whole). Then, after sharing a bottle of wine, some more guitar-ing and chatting, we decided we should head out. For the three of us there was only one place that we could go, the epitome of last summer, my spiritual home in Jesolo - Gasoline.
I may have written about this place before, but tough, I’m going to give you the low-down (and the high-up) on Gasoline, land of God’s. First of all you need to pronounce it Gazolyne, that’s how the Italians do it, because they think that is how the American’s say it. Chortle. It is in Piazza Mazzini, the main square of Jesolo, it has a huge neon-lit front, above it is Maxims, the strip-club (classy), around it are some of the really high-end shops of Jesolo. There are two 20 foot peanuts by Heineken and Budweiser signs that wave, and a picture of Roberto Rossi, the found of Italian biking, or so it claims. Inside it is seedy and dark, there is Americana nailed to the walls, rows of cowboy boots on shelves, pinball machines, barrels of monkey-nuts you help yourself to, staff who think they’re in Coyote Ugly and frequently jump on the bar and dance, a shot stand where you can buy alcohol that blows off you head, a pool table that is awful, weirdos and freaks, bikers and young guys and girls, toilets that overflow, netting to hold the collapsing wall in, music that varies from hard-house to 80’s cheese in a second, and the best greasy spoon food I’ve ever eaten. It is heaven. Nobody drinks or goes in there to be ‘seen’, as with some of the classier bars in Jesolo - people are in there to have fun and because of it’s aesthetic failings that is what the focus is on. Every time I go to Gasoline I always make new friends, usually very odd ones that I will never see again - but it’s fantastic, I end up in situations that just aren’t right - for example some Irish lads on holiday wanted to find a prostitute for ‘our man’s ‘ birthday - I didn’t pimp for them but explained the roundabout where they are known to hang out. That’s not normal. One time I made friends with a group of Dutch guys, who didn’t speak fantastic English but instead communicated through the medium of 1970’s British heavy metal. I must say that as Deep Purple was sung to me, whilst I leaned against a lamp-post slightly inebriated in Piazza Mazzini, that not for the first time I questioned my sanity.
So, that my friends, is Gasoline.
We arrived and suddenly felt like VIP’s (which are pronounced ‘veeps’, no joke). This wasn’t because of my awesome reputation or godlike status amongst these bloody savages, sadly not, it was because Janica was back and having grown up in Jesolo and worked there for many years, she knows everyone. It was great for me, I saw so many friends from last year and in a way it was like time-travelling. Alice went home very early, as she had to work, which was not really very helpful as suddenly Janica and I lost our chaperone and as you may be able to tell we were not in a particularly self-controlled mood.
I ended up befriending this random English guy (I felt sorry when he couldn’t make himself understood trying to order at the bar), who turned out to be a sniper in the army and out in Italy on a Rugby Tour. As I said, always random in Gasoline. Anyhow, I had not been talking to Janica for maybe 5 minutes, which was clearly an insult to the lady, so she walked in between us leaned up and kissed me gently on the mouth and then walked away. This did help my godlike status and awesome reputation, but apart from that tore me to pieces. It was so sweet, it was just a small kiss, but Janica being a short girl meant that she had to stand on tiptoes to reach me, the surprise of it and of course the rush from being kissed by the girl that had taken over my life last year was a bit too much.
I quickly excused myself and ran after her, where she gave me another kiss and then we bumped into her sister (quite literally, it’s hard to look where you’re going mid-kiss) and suddenly we were the naughty school-children caught in our web of immorality and looked very shamefaced. That and the fact that we both suddenly realised how stupid we were being, that this could only end one way, with a lot pain again. So, we stopped, we hugged, we nearly kissed and then hugged again, before nearly kissing and realising we were starting a circle here and stopped. We then went home (to separate homes, I mean) where I slightly tipsily climbed into the bed I was still sharing with Alice and fell into a pleasant stupor with a grin on my face.
The next day we exchanged a couple of messages - the biggest thing for me was seeing that Janica was real, that I hadn’t made it all up with time and hindsight, she really was as magnetic as I remembered and that there really was chemistry between us. It suddenly made the 9 months of indifference okay because I understood what a daft position we were in. She wished me goodnight and goodbye, as she had to fly and we arranged to meet in our heads as usual. Even now, a good month and a half after this happened and everything that has happened with Giada (to follow), if Janica walked into the room right now I couldn’t say how I’d react. Pathetic, eh?
About a week after the Janica debacle, where my head was spinning and I was finally beginning to work a bit, I at last got my own room. Isabella, the old lady, moved out, although she did leave her two cats with us; it took her a month to take them away. I don’t really like cats at the best of times, but these two were in equal parts irritating and cool - irritating because they made stupid noises and one of them scratched the door all night (until cruel Englishmen started throwing glasses of water at them when they did this, which quickly learned them), but cool because of their complete disregard for my comfort, which actually endeared them to me. For example, I was reading a book on the couch and Watka (Polish for Cat, dontcherknow) just jumps on to my chest and sits right between my eyes and the pages looking pleased with herself. Marlin would chase mosquitoes, which was very funny. However, they were someone’s pets and they needed looking after, I got sick of feeding them and cleaning out the litter - I didn’t want them, neither did any of my housemates, but we couldn’t blame the cats themselves (as one of my housemates did and frequently locked them out on the balcony, which always made me a little bit angry), they were just doing what was natural to them and being, well, cats - the full blame had to go on Isabella who just left them there until I threatened to throw them out on to the streets.
My room is tiny, it is actually a little bit smaller than a Grizedale room (seriously). Oh, I should say, an old now-demolished Grizedale room. It is, however, my own space, it belongs only to me and it is where I let my mess spread forth.
I’m going to have to stop this now, I’m up to 5000 words, which is frankly ridiculous, my fingers and brain hurt and there’s still hell of a lot to cover. Coming up next week (or whenever I get round to doing this) there’s family visits, Giada (the girl I met in the Black Cat), getting horrendously drunk and acting like an asshole (hard to believe), and the rest of my life. Which is a daunting prospect.
Love you long time, scallywags,
Monty xxx

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