Ciao, Maybe?

July 20, 2015

A Formaggio Fiasco

First off, let me just note that Sardegna has changed me. I have been blessed with a multitude of new experiences that, for the most part, I have tried and embraced. The big examples of course being food and drink related (can you see a pattern here?) for example cooking, seafood, limoncello and beer. I tolerated these as much as a 4 year old tolerates asparagus. Basically they came hand in hand with temper tantrums and tears. That being said, when I first did my research on this island that would become my temporary home, there were definate points of interest that I knew deep down in my soul I would never have the slightest interest in trying. Blood soup was one of them. And Casu Marzu was the second.
Now I want you to take quick break from this post for a minute. I want you to hop onto your internet machine and Google “10 most disgusting foods in the world”. Chances are you will find this macerated sin against nature on those lists. But for those who don’t have the time or stomach to delve deeper into the atrocities humans have invented for the sake of nourishment, I’ll just quickly break it down for you; Casu Marzu is a traditional Sardinian sheeps milk cheese that has been deliberately infested with Piophila Casei, or in non scientific terms … Fucking maggots! Oh and did I mention they jump? So not only are you about to eat the worst decision of your life, you also have to be careful they don’t take out your eye first as they try to escape their inevitable death. Fantastic.

So how is this relevant to me? Well as all horror stories go, it started with eye contact and a temporary lack of survival instincts. A friend and I had decided to go for a stroll around the night markets before we headed to the local wine bar. There was music, there was laughter and there was the contemplation of gelato. But then I made a quick but vital 4 second mistake. The one thing every person knows not to do when browsing market stalls. Eye contact was made. Eye contact was made with an Sardinian patriot selling his wares. We didn’t stand a chance.

“Ahh belle ragazze!! Per favore, provate i miei produtti. Una specialità locale buonissima!!” This was yelled in the loudest decibel this guy could manage. He tried to startle us into compliancy. And it totally worked. We tried some of his prosciutto, it was delicious. As was his assorted slices of pecorino sardo. He lulled us into a false sense of security. “Qua” he said, as he thrust a mound of decimated cheese on pane guttiau in front of my nose. “Prova, questa è piu buona”. So I did. Without thinking. And as soon as it passed my lips, I knew it wasn’t kosher. The sharp tang hit my tongue and it just fell apart in my mouth. It was grainy. The smell had permeated the back of my nose. It was inescapable so I swolled it. I looked at the patriot. He just smiled. “Cosa il nome? È…” I asked as I held up my index finger and thumb to indicate something small. “Sì, sì .. Casu Marzu.” My eyes widened. Literally I’ve never heard a more horrific sentence. Lemon sorbet and vodka could not wash away the memory of what I had done. I just felt dirty. I still do now. And I defiantly couldn’t tell my friend what I had unknowingly let her eat.
I’m still so disappointment in myself. I only had two weeks left of this place. And not only did I renege on a self imposed promise to never try that terrible mound of decomposition, I also participated in a crime. As it turns out, the special dish is illegal to sell or distribute to the general public … For a damn good reason. Cheers local food vendor. It’s honestly enough to put me off cheese altogether. Well … Almost enough anyways.

June 19, 2015

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The Beginnings of a Week in Tuscany and a Sulphuric Surpise

This week the family has taken me on a trip to the Tuscan countryside. I had committed myself to staying solo in Palau for a week but at the last minute, Camilla pulled a cute moment on me and asked if I could come with her. And as they are staying at a converted farmhouse villa with two pools and a tennis court, surprisingly it wasn’t too hard to convince me.

We took the ferry instead of flying to mainland Italy and this was a novelty to me. As it turns out, I am not made for long voyages on a boat. Also the ferry’s decor reminded me of the inside of a cheap casino in Vegas so I wouldn’t quite have an elegant death like Jack in Titanic (no string piece quartet to send me down to my watery grave).

We arrived at Livorno at 7am and planned on driving to our Villa however as we didn’t have any set time to get there, we decided on the scenic route. I wasn’t aware till later that this meant we were driving to a town called Lari to find a particular brand of home made pasta that is a family favourite. Now if you ever need to know a couple things about me, it’s that I have three great loves; food, Harry Potter and anything remotely historically related.

Lari it turns out, is a town so steeped in history, that the medieval castle and surrounding buildings have remained relatively untouched. I fell in love instantly. There is only one other city in the world that has dug it’s way into my heart like this and that’s Sintra, Portugal. As timing would have it, we managed to sneak a peek at the owner making his famous pasta by hand. Introductions were made, cups of teas were handed out and we ended up walking away with 3 kilos of free pasta. So far, this morning was a giant success. We headed to our villa and spent the rest of the day and the next morning by the swimming pool and on the tennis court.

This brings me to the surprise. After lunch it was decided we’d go have a look at the thermal baths in Asciano. I had never been to a thermal bath before so the first thing to hit me was the smell. Eggs. This is a natural SULFUR thermal bath. Fantastic. We walked in and it’s beautiful. Sleek design, fours pools, onsite hotel and spa and day beds for days. I find I don’t mind the smell quite as much. But the Next surprise was when I stepped into the pool.

Now I have a deep mistrust of anything the slightest bit squishy between my toes. I don’t go near seaweed, foot massages are not my thing and wet socks are the devil. So imagine my face when the moment my feet touch the bottom of the pool, my toes have sunk in sludge. I pig squealed. People stared. My family was embarrassed. It turns out, no one else seems to have an issue with the feeling of wet fungus between their toes.

The final surprise; everyone’s face was coated in said sludge. Yes people where scooping the white substance off the floor and plastering their skin with it. I was invited to try it. I was explained how beneficial it was for your skin. How it’s a natural antiseptic and only made of sulphur and bicarbonate soda. So I did. And it was terrible. The smell. I can only describe it as a cross between rotten eggs and foot fungus. Literally the smell of hundreds of thousands of foot fungusy feet stamping and swishing around in bicarb soda and then being constantly washed and immersed in sulphur water. I was afraid to open my mouth. There are plenty of natural substances which you should not put on your face and I’m pretty sure this is one of them. In fact pigeon poo is the closest thing I can think of to accurately describe the feel and smell.

I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy the whole experience. In fact, smell withstanding, it was quite relaxing. And the following morning, I felt like I had a more even complexion. But I much prefer lying on a beach, cocktail in hand and not having my face covered in sulphuric pigeon poo.

May 7, 2015

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The Panic of a Quickly Approaching Summer

There is nothing quite like the hint of warm weather and a brand new bikini, that makes you regret your past winters’ lifestyle choices. For me, procrastination and hibernation are winter staples. Along with oversized knits and black leggings of course.

Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about self body shaming. I’ve somewhat come to terms that this is the body I’ve been bestowed with and I’m relatively content with it. And hey, even on the occasional day (with good lighting) I look at myself in the mirror and think, “oh hey girl, you have a bit of something going on there. Good for you!” But for those of you who haven’t read my previous posts (and for those who have), I’m going to state the obvious; I love food. Intensely. Infact I am currently on the tail end of spending a year in Italy, where pasta, pizza, risotto and gelato are on constant dinner rotation.

Is it a coincidence that in this particular moment I may not be at my peak physical condition, whilst I have a mojito flavoured sorbet within two minutes of walking distance. I think not!

But all the self loving encouragements and contrasting filters in the world did not help my predicament when my most recent package arrived in the mail; A pair of chic black Fella Swim bikinis. I had been following this brand for a while on Instagram and decided a cheeky birthday present to myself was due. Just for being a top notch broad.

But as I unwrapped my purchase, reality dawned and weirdly, my palms were sweating. Online, they looked a little bare-bummed. But hey, I’m in Italy. Bare bottoms at the beach (and I cannot stress the “at the beach” part enough) are not uncommon amongst the eight month olds to the eighty year olds. Italy is the place this style of bikini was made for. So I gather my courage and try this costume on and immediately, my stomach drops. Up top is perfect. Infact I can see a hint of upper ab definition and the cut of the top really makes my arms and shoulders look like I’ve done a lot more then 5 push-ups in the last month. But it was the bottom half that made me mentally curse. I could clearly see that here is where the past food comas have hidden, and I’m pretty sure that THAT was not where I had left my butt last summer!

Why hadn’t I paid less then $10 a week for Kayla Itsines training program? How is it possible that it’s taken me one and a half months to complete a thirty day squat challenge? What happened to my shower lunges or watching TV crunches or the three kilometre run instead of a nap? Why is it that these little pockets of inspiration only come after I’ve eaten a bowl of risotto? Procrastination and hibernation. That is how!

You’d not be remiss for thinking my natural reaction was to curl up inside my doona, take comfort in a jar of Nutella and shove my tear inducing costume in the back of my undies draw, never to see the light of day again. Infact I still have a habit of doing two of those things. But no. At the next peek of sunshine, I pulled those bikinis on and dragged my pale skinned butt to that beach. Just like every other female has done before me.

You’d be pleased to know I haven’t given myself too much of a hard time since then. A decent tan always covers a sinful amount of flaws.

April 16, 2015

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Lost in Translation With a Giant Pizza Burger

There are some days where I think I’ve got it. That I think I’m blending in to my tiny Sardinian town. Days where I think I can pass off as one of those natural italian blondes to the unsuspecting persons in a cafè, with my black jeans, nike trainers and aviator sunnies. Just conversing “con la mia amica”, whilst contently sipping my two sip espresso. Yes there are defiantly some days where I think I have the Italian language sorted. And then there’s the other 85% of my week. All the other days where everything I hear is jibberish. When ordering an espresso is fashionably stupid because two sips of coffee has the same effect as taking half a Panadol. Which is nothing. Days when I’m staring at my acquaintance with panicked eyes, fear radiating off me like a microwave and a brain on constant shut down mode. When the only italian response I can manage is “si” or “certo”. These are the days I am super aware of just how enept I am at learning another language.

This is unfortunate, as I have infact spent the last six months at a school, taking lessons. My poor, poor Maestra. I am deeply sympathetic to this Italian Donna who has to experience my butchering of her language, twice a week, for 2.5 hours. I don’t think I’m a shining highlight of her week and I dread the day the word “esame” will be brought up in conversation. I honestly hope there’s a prize for participation when it does.

The reason I have led this most recent entry with a tiny intro to my language skills, is to give a background to an incident today that, for the sake of my health, could have been prevented. And big surprise, it involved food.

This evening, in celebration of the return of a family member from Milan, and because we really could not be bothered cooking, my live-in family and I decided to go to a pizzeria for dinner. This is fantastic. I love pizza. It was one of the top contending reasons why I said yes to moving to Italy for one year. And according to the family, the pizzeria we were heading to is one of the best they’ve experienced in Italy. I’m excited. I peruse the menu and see the usual favourites, Primavera, Capricciosa and the standard Margherita, but right down the bottom of the list, I also see something called “Pane Araba”. I’ve never heard of this before but the description says mozzarella, ham, salad (this is to trick myself into thinking that eating a whole pizza has some nutritional value) and tomatoes. Brilliant. This sounds like a go-er. I’m not even going to ask the family what it is. I’ll try this one, per favore.

Ten minutes later the pizzas are ready and naturally, mine is the last to be served. Now had I been successful at learning italian, I would have made this simple connection before I ordered my dinner. Pane, in italian, means bread and Araba, well, Araba according to google translate means Arab, but I don’t quite get the connection to Middle Eastern cuisine so I’m going to let this word go. So bread pizza, hmmm bread pizza. A pizza with bread on it. Once again, had I properly learnt Italian, this is something that would have struck me as odd, so I would have been prepared for what was placed infront of me. A pizza burger. I go to a top notch pizzeria and order a pizza burger. For the love of God, people were staring!

I know what some of you are thinking. A Pizza burger does not sound like a bad thing. And dare I say it, some of you might even be a little bit jealous. But in a place where chicken as a pizza topping is scoffed at, ordering a Pizza Burger receives the same reaction as if you were to go into Dominos with a fake moustache and fake italian accent. They don’t know if you’re taking the piss or completely serious. As it turns out, I was completely serious.

In summary, I don’t regret what I did. I only wish I had understood the consequences of such a decision. The pizza burger was delicious, but I know, that come time to put on a bikini, I’ll only have myself to blame.

April 2, 2015

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The Art of Free Icecream

I don’t know exactly how to put my feelings into words right now. I’m a little bit anxious, enormously elated, somewhat full but not yet content. I don’t think there’s a single word to sum it up. It’s almost too much for one person to handle. Today is the day the new gelateria opens her doors, and for her inauguration, the owners are giving away free icecream. Yes. Stop what you are doing. This is actually happening. I literally can’t even.

It’s no surprise that Italians take gelato very seriously. They take every food very seriously. If I had given them a lukewarm response following the devouring of said icecream, I may have been knifed. But that’s not to say they don’t have every right to be proud. Pasta, lasagna, risotto. Pizza for Christ sake! The world is a better place with their iconic dishes. God I’m getting hungry just writing this.

I have a love/hate relationship with food. I love food but I hate what some of those foods do to me. Kinda similar to the way I feel about Kanye to be honest. My mother raised my sisters and I to expect that if certain tasks weren’t completed, there would be no reward. So if we didn’t eat everything on our plate, there would be no desert. There would be no icecream. Oh the horror. And these weren’t baby sized meals either. My mother grew up on a farm, ergo, we were brought up with an appetite that would enable us to shear sheep, lasso cattle and whatever else farm people do (clearly that’s where our childhood similarities end). In fact, I’m still convinced that had we remained in the USA, instead of moving to Australia, we would have made a killing touring county fairs as competitive eaters. Think of the money! Think of the food! Hell my sister is the 2013 women’s minced pie eating champion (an annual competition from my work Christmas party that we take VERY seriously) and she wasn’t even supposed to be competing, she was the caterer! My point being that we are ridiculously passionate when it comes to food. So free food, in any situation, is a bit of a big deal. And free icecream? Shut. The front. Door.

Back to today’s opening. The word had spread a week ago that this was happening. I thought I had prepared myself. There was a slight problem though. I wasn’t sure where this palace of gelato was. I walked around a couple of days ago and couldn’t find my Mecca. That’s okay, I assured myself, this was Italy. The signs won’t be up until the last minute. I had another look yesterday. I saw zilch. I started to worry. This morning, on our way to the park, I dragged a 6 year old around the town and still found nothing. I was devastated. Maybe tomorrow, I told my dejected self. I was understandably upset. By this afternoon, the pain had dulled to a slow ache. I consoled myself with a brisk espresso on our second journey to the park. The wind was picking up, we were getting cold, I called the child in for our voyage home. The day was a disappointment. But as I rounded a corner and turned onto an alley way, that locals have unwisely turned into a passageway for cars, I saw it. It was as if God had parted the clouds and gifted his child a miracle she had been praying for devoutly. There was the gelateria. There was the free icecream. And there was barely even a line.

At time of writing I have feasted on two double scoop coppetta’s. Walnut and tiramisu, and pistachio and white chocolate. I’m considering a third trip. It would be unjust of me not to squeeze every bit out of this glorious opportunity. Maybe a cheeky bacio and caffè. The possibilities are endless, as is my inevitable stomach ache. The day has been saved.

March 29, 2015

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The Day the Garden Hose was Not my Friend – a suggestion by JBizzle.

The day started like any other day. Alarm, snooze button, dragging of oneself though the morning ritual of shower, dressing and breakfast.

Anyone who knows me well, knows mornings are not my shiniest of moments. Anytime before 9am is still considered nighttime, and if you try and make conversation before my first cup of coffee, I’m likely to just walk away mid sentence after mentally informing you how much I don’t care.

Keeping this in mind, I got into my car (parked on the lawn, conveniently under our security light) and headed to work at 7.15am (an hour and 45minutes before mornings should start). Along the main road I passed a late starting road bicyclist. In my obligatory glance in the rear view mirror, I noticed his odd hand gestures. He also seemed to be yelling at me. I checked my odometer, I wasn’t speeding. Nor was I too close to his lane. Clearly this guy had a case of the morning grumps. I ignored, turned onto another street and carried on. The early birds are crazy in my experiences.

I got to a set of lights. As a car pulled up next to me on my right I did (as is habit) a quick glance and noticed he too was pointing and gesturing. I looked behind me and saw nothing. I locked my doors and gave him the sideways “alright mr insano” eyebrows and concentrated on the radio. Jesus I hate mornings.

At the next set of lights, the same car pulled up on my right again. This time he was laughing. “What the eff? Is it rag on Jocelyn day or something??” I mentally complain and curse the gods for bringing the town idiots into my life.

I pull up to the clinic and hop out of the car. As I walk towards the door, I notice a hose right underneath where I’ve parked. Odd, what is that doing here? Who has had the audacity to leave a hose right in my self appointed car park. I didn’t even know we had a hose at the clinic. Huh, I thought to myself. And as I got to that last step and unlocked the door it hit me. Like a shovel to the face.

We don’t have a hose at the clinic, and Infact I am positive that if we did, there is no way it would still be here in the morning. Nope THIS hose, came from my front lawn and I have inadvertently dragged that thing through the town. It was me all along who was the town idiot. Dammit.

Maybe next time I accidentally do this, I might chuck a swerve in and see if I can collect the bicyclist. That way I know for sure that someone has had a worse morning then me.

Kidding of course.

March 24, 2015

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A Naked Proposal

Will You Marry Me; Four words that every girl hopes to hear and epic love stories are created about. It’s an emotionally exposed and un-offending question that should* pinpoint the most romantic moment in your life.

* key word: should. Hi, my name is Jocelyn and I can make any situation as awkward as humanly possible.

Let me set the scene for you;

✔️ exotic location – amsterdam

✔️ romantic surroundings – house boat on the canals

✔️ memorable date for anniversary reasons – Christmas morning

✔️perfect execution – down on one knee and prior consent of mother

✖️ beautiful, calm and un-awkward acceptance by me – Not. At. All. Unless of course you think that 6am attitude and bed hair is beautiful, instant flood of tears is calm and a repetitive and (very) high pitched “but, are you sure” is un-awkward. If so then by all means mentally tick that box. But I did say yes amoungst the tears at one stage. I think anyway. Maybe the yes was implied.

Once the emotional breakdown subsided, and all necessary calls have been made (thank god for our bi-annual Harro-Olympics christmas family get-togethers) the ring reveling begins and I literally can not tear my eyes away from my left hand. Oh so shiny, Look how it sparkles, How heavy my hand feels, Oh my god it’s so shiny, Look at the pretty sparkles ….. This continues for a full two days. And then the mental planning begins.

Now I’m going to make a huge generalization here, but every girl has thought about their wedding at one stage or another. We have been taking mental notes, keeping diaries and pintrest boards and giggling to our bestest of friends, about our imaginary impending nuptials all because if we say it out loud, for some weird reason, it makes us look needy and desperate. Which is odd because aren’t we all needy and desperate for love in some form or another (woah, things just got philosophic).

This ring, that my very good looking, caring, protective and sometimes intolerable hoosh (oh I’m making it a word Sam) has placed on my finger, gives me the privilege, nay entitlement, to now voice my opinions without sounding like a 16 year old girl on her two week anniversary. I am getting married. My lover’s declaration of love has given me the right to voice my opinions to him at any given moment and all he has to do is nod his head, smile and think happy thoughts while I get my crazy on.

Granted Sam did say once that I should start counting my Missisippi’s and wait until I get home in 5 months to start planning … It’s almost as if he doesn’t know me at all. And he did mention (in jest I think) the “e” word just once before I shut him down. We would have to climb over both our mothers and sisters dead bodies in order to elope. And I don’t think we’d be on the family’s Christmas card list that year.

But after the moment is done and I clearly did not look, nor behave like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind (what I was aiming for), the fact still remains that even though this kid is going to have to put up with my kind of crazy and awkwardness for the rest of his life, he has still made a declaration to love me, crazy and all, for an indefinite period of time.

And while my acceptance (and his attire) was untraditional (but effective), I count my lucky stars that it’s him who got down on one knee and single handedly turn me into a basket case. So for now, the waiting begins. One Missisippi ….

March 21, 2015

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An Italian Affair.

An Italian family gathered together is a sight to behold. It’s utterly chaotic, and for someone who speaks very little italian, very confusing.

The process usually starts one or two days beforehand at the supermarket, buying the supplies for, what looks like, a gastronomic exhibition. I don’t know how (literally I don’t know how, I am a terrible cook) but Italians seem to take a simple dish and turn it into a Michelin rated meal. Simplicity seems to be the key. The amount of times I have heard “no, that’s not italian” or “this is not possible” makes me rethink all those italian nights at our local pub. The day I learnt chicken parmigiana was not a staple dish, was a very dark day for me. It’s still a tender issue.

Anyway I regress, the cooking itself is always a mystery to me. But then, I pride myself on my skills at tiger toast (an australian delicacy) and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Palau is a coastal town so guaranteed seafood will make an appearance and if there’s not a dish involving pasta or risotto, then it’s just not italian. Then there’s desert, a digestive (limoncello, mirto or grappa) and the finale is a strong but sweet espresso – 2 parts coffee and 1 part sugar naturally.

And while this feast is being devoured with fingers, forks and vino, there’s the conversation. I didn’t understand all of what was going on but I assume from the volume and hand gestures that it was catastrophic. Someone may have died but that’s just a guess.

After all food has been demolished, the coffee and limoncello has vanished and there is literally not one clean plate left in the entire kitchen, well wishing and cheek kisses are in order – which incidentally I am still quite unused to. I find it unnecessary to go to first base with every person I’ve met and hugging in general for me is an awkward thing.

BUT after all the well wishing is done, all parties retire to their respective houses and beds because an italian family gathering is akin to two consecutive nights of straight vodka shots – you always say never again but you know it’s going to happen with or without your consent.

March 21, 2015

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An email sent March 2015

Hello my distinguished co-workers, friends and Shannon.

My apologies go out for the length between updates but time flies when your gathering more lessons;

Volume 3: 7 more lessons I have learnt so far.

1) Time flies when your having fun. This is an old lesson but relevant none the less.
I am at a loss where the last 7 months of my life went. I have a slight but familiar feeling I left it under a rock on a beach in Morocco, but it’s too late to search for it now. I feel very lucky to have travelled as much as I have while over here, but then €40 and only a backpack as carry on, can pretty much get you anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere. So far I have seen a little of Italy (though more is yet to come when mum flies over), Visited Amsterdam and Berlin, ate my way through Spain, surfed in Morocco (we’ll come back to this later) and stepped two feet in France. I am loving the look of my passport right now. Is it vein to have it signed and framed later?

2) Christmas is best spent with people that you love …. And food. Copious amounts of glorious food.
I was very lucky to have Sam come and visit me for 3 months. Not only did I get a wonderful Christmas present -diamonds are truely a girls best friend, second place being Nutella naturally- but we then had a wonderful Christmas dinner at a Jamie Oliver restaurant in Amsterdam. I’ve never had a wine paired four course meal but I highly recommend it. And while I spent a couple of moments (or hours) dwelling on how much I missed my loved ones at home, I was very greatful for the loved one I had there to spend it by my side. Sappy I know but Christmas is a sappy time.

3) I am not a heavy drinker – Berlin 3 Jocelyn -2
Thank you Berlin for reminding me of the after affects of a good night out. I met a couple of friends in Berlin to reign in the new year and while I am not proud of how I spent some of the mornings nor of some of the dance moves that surfaced at certain clubs, we had a good time none the less. I also started up my own walking tour company where I spent three hours giving my friends a tour of Berlin that I had only taken two days before. The facts where sketchy and most dates were made up but we didn’t get lost and my friends saw the sites of Berlin FOR FREE. I’m thinking of starting a similar tour in Geraldton. Sketchy facts and made up dates included. Tips will be appreciated and enforced.

4) throwing used napkins on the floor is blasphemy.
After Berlin, Sam and I went to San Sebastián (Spain) for a week long gastronomy bonanza. The first rule we learnt was that the town is run on Europen time, which means everyone eats and stays out late and no one is up before 9am. The second rule we learnt is, when eating in pinxtos bars, your used napkins are to be thrown on the floor. Now two problems here; not only does this violate my personal ethics, is unnatural and un sanitary, you always have to check your shoe to make sure a cheeky napkin isn’t stuck to your foot. For them it’s an indication that the food is good – the more napkins on the floor means lots of customers and good food, but for me this remains a sin against God.

5) I will not, anytime soon, become the next Layne Beachley.
As I mentioned previously I also had the opportunity to head to Morocco. Sam and I had stayed at the same village, in the same surf camp in 2011- When I was fitter, had more energy, and looked ALOT better in a bikini then now. Let’s just say time has not been kind to my non existent surfing abilities. I did however make lots of friends (only two who I actually injured whilst surfing), I adopted 3 dogs and 2 cats, had a tan for 1 week and 4 days and ate the most amazing Tajines every night. It’s safe to say that little trip was a giant success.

6) one can actually survive on cheese and Nutella alone. I don’t think an elaboration is needed here.

7) it’s all fun and games until the town shuts down for winter.
While I understand How lucky I am having an opportunity to spend a year in a small amazing town in Sardegna, I feel like I’m slightly misleading you if I don’t drop this next knowledge bomb on you; it is ridiculously boring here in the winter time. In fact, part of the reason why I’ve been able to travel as much as I have is because the family I work for is very understanding to just how boring it can be. Shops are closed, people are either in hibernation or have moved to Brazil for 6 months and there is no more blue sky and blue water. I can’t even remember what it’s like to be warm anymore. Shorts?? What are shorts? Sandals? Have you lost your mind?

It’s on these cold winter days that I stop and wish for a tiny moment to be back home, with my family and friends, sitting at my work computer and reading emails. But then the moments gone and I just make myself a Nutella hot chocolate.

I hope everyone at home is keeping safe and happy.
And remember, you too can make yourself a Nutella hot chocolate. Go on, it’s nearly break time right?

Until more life experiences smack me in the face … Ci vediamo.

Ciao i miei amici,

Joce

March 20, 2015

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An email sent October 2014

Ciao Amici,

So it has been nearly two months since my departure and I know you all are in such anticipation for volume 2 of things I have learnt. So here is a couple of minutes of relief from work;

1. Italian coffee is the drink of gods. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my veins are filled with more coffee then blood. Breakfast time: cappuccino, morning tea: espresso, after lunch apperatiff: espresso, afternoon tea: espresso, after dinner apperatiff: limoncello or espresso. At this rate, if you want any work done, I’m going to need a cup of coffee in my hand at all times. Serious consideration for an espresso machine at every desk Janine. Put it in the next clerical meeting minutes!

2. I don’t know who started the rumor that Australians are experienced drinkers but compared to Italians, we’re like frat boys at a party. We drink to get drunk and destroy our dignity (well majority of us do anyway). Italians drink in a refined manner. They have a glass of wine or beer (vino o berre) for lunch and/or dinner and if the go “out to drink” they generally have no more then 3 or 4 standard drinks. After dinner apperatiff is when the hard stuff comes out, limoncello. They call it a “digestive”, I call it a death shot. It’s pretty much lemon flavored pure alcohol served in a shot glass. It must be sipped, not shot, otherwise you will burn a hole in your throat. Silvia finds it hilarious that I have to chase her homemade “digestive” with water. I’m pretty sure she’s made her batch with extra ratio of alcohol but she assures me it’s normal. Yeah. Righto.

3. When being served food at a family dinner, the following rules apply: no means yes, yes means a few more servings and BASTA, PER FAVORE (stop please) means just another spoonful. There is no such thing as I’m not hungry (or “non fame”). If your not hungry it means your sick, and if your sick maybe you need a digestive! (See above) The same rules apply for beverages.

4. I have a feeling I never ever will be tempted to be behind the wheel of a moving object whilst on an Italian road. I was recently asked by Silvia “do you want to drive the car around while your over here?” My answer was a definitive “No!”
S – “how bout the scooter?”
J – “No”
S -“the bike?”
J – “Not gunna happen!” because giving me less of a barrier between me and the hard road is more of an incentive? No.
Even being a passenger of a car is terrifying. I’ve yet to see a straight stretch of road and turn signals, pedestrian crossings and stop signs are optional.

5. I’m currently attending an Italian course and I feel like I’m in primary school. The 6 year old has to help me with my homework! I can ask and answer basic phrases and I might be able to understand 40% of what an Italian is saying but if they ask me a direct question, I feel like my mouth is stuffed with cotton balls and my brain has gone blank. So far my response to a unfamiliar question is mostly “ehh scusa … Uhh non parlo Italiano?” Or “io parlo un’poco Italian?” And I always say my answer like a question because I have no clue if what I said is correct or (thanks to a Mexican friend that works at the school and has been teaching me questionable phrases) if I have just offended them. Usually I can tell by the hand gesture or if their eyes are bulging from their faces if that’s the case. Pronunciation is a vital difference between having your question answered or being punched in the face. So far no punched have been thrown yet, hand gestures on the other hand …..