An Old Friend from Far-Away ...

We met at Taieri High when we were 13 but didn't start talking till we were 14.  Then we talked a bit.  Some evenings on the phone, the old dial-style phones, plugged into the wall.  His father or mine occasionally threatening death as the phone lines were blocked.

We were discussing serious things and the world.

David was another much-loved old friend from those days.  And, occasionally, I took photographs of them on their bikes with that very first camera of mine.  I remember the time Dave deliberately spilled tomato sauce over that shot of him landing badly after some kind of jump at the Brick and Sand quarry.  We were in the midst of a post-motorcross pile of fish 'n chips at the time.

I still have those photographs in storage back home in New Zealand.

Paul arrived here in this Belgian world last weekend, fresh from his advanced para-gliding course in Doussard.  That place where Gert and I had so enjoyed staying.  Paul showed us the video footage of the stalls they had to practice ... heart-stopping moments where the 'chute' lost air and needed correcting.

Like us, he raved about the scenery, the mountains.

This last week has been a week where two old friends from smalltown New Zealand wandered in Europe. We visited The Somme, finding the grave of his great-great-grandfather.

I introduced him to Antwerp where he hunted down the wrought iron and he, perhaps without realising it, gifted me a new view on the city.  We checked out coffee and wine places, I introduced to more than a few beers that were 'a bit malty'.  I laugh as I write that ... I'm not the best beer advisor when an Aussie bloke knows what kind of beer he prefers.

He forgave me, I think.

I insisted he visit Flanders Fields where we were fortunate enough to catch up with both of my favourite Belgians down there in the Westhoek.  Modest experts in their areas of knowledge.  Steven found some more information on a WWI relative Paul had been curious about, and a book about the Otago Mounted Rifles.  It seems that Paul's Alfred William Johnson was in the same battalion as my grandad, George Gidion Murray.

Locating the book seems to be another story and I've had to write off to the Westhoek to check that I have the right title.  I do believe it's a book I'd quite like to read.

But enough, here's a photograph I took for both David and Fiona ... we wished them both here.  Liz too.  Remember those days ...

Via San Vincenzo, Genova

This picking through and posting images from my May in Genova began when I decided it was time to write of that trip.

This street ... Via San Vincenzo, the walking street that I often use when I wander to or from Brignole Station.  I know I've arrived or I'm sad to be leaving.  It varies. 

Arriving in Genova - May, 2013

My journey to Genova in May, despite being far too short, was as special as every other visit I've made to that exquisite Italian city located in Liguria.  But the kindness of strangers was quietly overwhelming and intensely appreciated.  Perhaps it was all more condensed .  I don't know.  It was a special visit.  Crazy busy but filled with people I want to write about in the days ahead.

I've put off writing about it in detail because I didn't want to miss out any stories.  Now ... so much time has passed, I fear I have forgotten some things.

It's time to sit awhile and remember.

I arrived via Rome and landed in Genova late afternoon.  It was raining and grey - the only grey day I had.  In the days that followed, it was summer.  The journey from Brussels had been long but this time I was staying with Francesca and her lovely family out at Arenzano.  Paola's apartment was under renovation back in the city.

So I followed the train signs out to the airport exit doors but then the signs peetered out.  I turned a few times, sure it was me who was somehow lost, before wandering back to a counter where there was man who seemed like he might be open to questions from this lost woman.

He was lovely.  He started talking of the bus, then a taxi, then walking ...discounting each idea as he went.  It's not much more than a kilometre to the train station, an easy walk normally and so he drew me a map but then looked at the rain and wasn't happy.  The situation was resolved when a friend or collegue of his called out a ciao.  He called him over to us.  This lovely young man listened to the story and before I knew it my luggage and I were in his car. 

He had un po inglese and well ... my lack of ability in other languages has created laughter all over the world.  But we talked a little.  He weaved through the streets near the airport then parked next to a footbridge that went over the railway tracks.  He unloaded my luggage and then, much to my horror, carried my heavy bag all the way to the top of the stairs.  I was so grateful and a little bit mortified.

We said our goodbyes and I made my way down to the train station. I bought my ticket. 

Flustered, tired ... who knows really, I had forgotten how trains worked in Italy.  Platforms, directions, stuff like that.  Eventually I asked at the office and another lovely Ligurian said, come with me, and so I did.  I followed her under the tracks and up onto the correct platform.

Honestly, I know how trains work there.  I use them often but it seemed that there was a brain-freeze going down and I was in its grip.  She sat with me, we talked a little.  I wished I had studied Italian.  I appreciated her unobtrusive kindess.

I arrived in Arenzano and Francesca picked me up and whisked me off to her place. 

Now ... Francesca has lovely friend called Anna Lisa.  I'm sure of the 'lovely' because Anna Lisa had offered to cook dinner for Francesca and her family that evening. 

I took a photograph or two while she whipped up a focaccia al formaggio, as per the photograph at the end of this post.  There was other food too but I was so tired by then, and I did nothing but race about madly during those 5 exquisite days in Genova, I've lost the rest of the memory of dinner.  I suspect that the warm focaccia di formaggio was so good that I have fixated on it.

I also suspect that the kindness of Ligurian strangers had overwhelmed me, filled me up, knocked me off-balance a little.

And Francesca's family ... Beppe, Cesare, and Emma.  There's so much love between them that it is truly lovely to spend time in their midst.

And so I arrived. Genova,  May 2013.

Update: if you use a reader to read my posts, sincere apologies for the series of edits.  Strong antibiotics, 3 espressos, and no sunshine or warmth ... it all messed with my mind.

And Stefano, grazie mille for the editing advice.  It was a rather grave error, falling to the 'No exceptions' category.