On My Way To That Airport in Milan

There was this older gentleman, riding an old bicycle, wearing a long black coat ... I imagined he was a priest at first.  He was smoking a cigar.  There were exclusive-looking shopping bags hanging from both handlebars.  And he crossed the road on a red light and I thought, 'not so priestly'. Then again, quite possibly Father Healy might done that. 

Anyway by the time I realised he wasn't a priest he had my attention.  He stopped on the island in the middle of the road and lifted the camera he had hanging round his neck, using it to take a photograph of the old-fashioned apartment building in front of him.

Then, a few streets on, there was a small truck raised up on its mobility/stability stands while the ladder was raised.  I can't be sure but it seemed like there was a big white cat sitting up in a tree waiting for rescue. 

I reached the airport, hungry but craving something sweet too.  When I write up this some might say, 'Oh Diane ...' but others may benefit from my honesty should they find themselves hunting down lunch at an airport in Milan.  I ordered a mozzarella and tomato sandwich and ... a hot chocolate. 

The waitress could barely put my order together.  She was laughing so hard. 

Sigh.

And laughing.  And still laughing as I wandered off with my 5pm lunch. 

Sometimes one just has to take the 'hit'.  There were things I could have said but decided it was a life lesson.

I came to the departure lounge early to work on my marketing assignment but there was an elderly English academic talking to his wife two seats down from me.  He was so ... so very much what you might except from a rather elderly English academic perhaps. 

He had been at a conference here in Milan and was rather excited by the wine at dinner but disappointed by the behaviour of some of 'the team'.  Talked of corruption and bureaucracy, so loudly, that I feared his way of speaking might slip into my writing.  Maybe it has ...

Traveling between here and there always seems to drag me into a slightly surreal space.  Speaking of surreal, I only managed to take one photograph of Davide, the Genovese guy who looks so remarkably like John Lennon ...

I went wandering with Alessandra, Federico, Barbara and Davide on Sunday.  It was superb.

 

My Beautiful Katie-Niece and A Piece of Her Art

My niece, Katie, recently sent me a copy of her end of year artwork.  It's a delicately beautiful static image.  She received 3 excellences for this work but even if she hadn't, I'm so proud of her talent.

And although I adore her, truly, madly, deeply ... she melted my heart some more when she wrote that I was represented by an object there too, as one of the people she loves.

She was the littlest creature when I left New Zealand and when I went home, I discovered both her and her sister are becoming the loveliest young women.

Oh yes ... I'm so proud of these girls.

Back in Genova

I woke to the alarm at 5.45am.  We were out the door by 6.40am.  The airport bus, the flight (1 hour 20 minutes), then another airport bus in Milan, and the train through the hills to Genova.  It's been a day but I love traveling.

I was lucky.  There was no rain as I walked along Via XX Settembre from Brignole Station.  I arrived, turned on the gas and heating, changed into more appropriate clothes and then was out again. Hunter-gathering.

It's good to be back in Genova. I love this city, so very much.

My USB modem is loaded to go for a month.  I have red wine, sparkling water, and not too much else at the moment.  I was counting on my favourite pizzeria being open tonight but it's almost 6.30pm and there's nothing happening there yet. 

It's pouring down here but that doesn't matter.  I've always loved rain.  When I lived in Istanbul people would call out compliments to me when it rained.  I sparkle in the rain but it's not surprising, given that I grew up in Dunedin and loved living in Fiordland later.  Rain is that thing that happens in those places.  Excessively at times.

So I have arrived.   Now, to start on the work that I came here to do.

Oakley the Labrador

As Oakely, the exquisite chocolate-brown labrador pup, inches ever-closer to my slipper-clad feet, I find myself moving my chair back from my desk to ensure he is comfortable.  Then I reach down and we have a wee conversation.  I stroke him some, rearrange his chin so it's on his beanbag instead of my foot and then I move the chair back to the desk again.

I've always been a pushover when it comes to a good dog.  I'm the boss but I'm not opposed to contact and conversation while working.  Occasionally he licks the bare part of my foot and it's okay, I'll survive. 

It's been 10 or 11 years since I last had a dog in my house.  After a lifetime of labradors, beginning at age 9.  Wandering the world dogless has been kind of strange.  They are true companions and there's nothing like a dog when it comes to beaches and rivers, and long lonely walks.  To working at whichever desk or table I've had during those days out here in the world.

Somehow, when a dog is involved, it's okay to talk outloud as you write.  Someone is listening.  And as I have written this, my right foot has become all snuggled and warm, as Oakley has sprawled himself over it ... using just one quarter of his beautiful beanbag.

So this is a first shot, taken when Oakley was more interested in being next to me than stepping back to a more appropriate distance for my 70-200mm lens.

Oh, I should truth-tell.  Jessie organised this.  She agred to dog-sit for 24 hours.  Last night she had him up in her room but this morning I have him while she is on the morning school-run.  I'm very happy about this.  She knows it.  Not having a dog has been one of the more difficult things about living in places not my own.

Thank you, Jessie.

 

 

From the Outside Looking In on Genoa

'When the uniqueness of a place sings to us like a melody, then we will know, at last, what it means to be home.'

Paul Gruchow.

Note: I wrote the following post back in 2013, for the Lovin Genova Blog and decided to crosspost it here tonight.  By the way, the Lovin Genova Blog is well worth visiting, if you find yourself curious to know more about that ancient Ligurian city I love so well. 

Genova is a city of layers, so many layers that contain so much history. It is an ancient port city, a city of traders, bankers, artists, and explorers …

But to begin at the beginning, with what struck me that first time I arrived in 2008.

There was this feeling of having arrived in a city protectively nestled, as it is, between the sea and steep hills. As a New Zealander I grew with a deep appreciation for the physical landscape and have a passion for both the sea and the mountains.

Then there were the colours of Genova. Perhaps each person experiences them differently but my over-riding impression was of a city painted in colours that ranged from pale yellow through into a deep orange. Deep green shutters, sometimes blue.

I am a photographer and I admit to being guilty of sometimes saturating the images I capture out there in the city but I defend this as an expression of the intensity of feeling I experience when I wander those city streets.

Paola, my Genovese friend, has gifted me space in her place located in the heart of the old part of the city and I have been able to return, again and again, over the years. I work at her kitchen table, first floor, located in a narrow carruggio – or small alleyway. I work next to an open window most of the time, listening to the life I hear out on the street … and there is so much life. Oftentimes I feel like I have a room in a huge house there in the city.

I hear my neighbours and the people who pass by out on the street, laughing and talking as they go about their day. There is the rattle of espresso cups as breakfast-time comes and goes, then the clink of cutlery at lunch-time. Dogs barking at one another when they meet, another suitcase rolls by, or maybe a class of school children wander past singing. I love the sound of it all.
I live with the ancient city wall almost pressed against the back of my building. The wall that was built to keep Emperor Barbarossa out as he rampaged across Europe in the 12th century.

It has to be known that the people of Genova were business people first and foremost. The saying goes … Januensis ergo mercator – or, Genoese, therefore a merchant. And in their roles as traders and explorers they were in possession of a rather magnificent shipping fleet back in 1155. Barbarossa understood he might require their assistance and left them in peace.

Today the wall still works as a defender … I think of it whenever I lean on my windowsill to get a better phone reception, and my USB modem hangs at the window too.

Each time I return, so many times since 2008, there is a sense of homecoming that surprises me. I come from New Zealand, I have lived in Istanbul, and Antwerp, and yet it is this city in Italy that has won my heart.

I suspect it is because I find everything I require, in just the right measures, in Genova. There is the geography that reminds me of New Zealand, the sense of isolation that comes from being surrounded by hills, and a history so rich, like that found in Istanbul but quieter. The Genovese culture appears to maintain a quiet dignity that I suspect so many visitors have enjoyed over the years.

When I talk to travelers, I discover much to my surprise, that Genova seems to be some kind of secret. It is passed over for the crowded trails in Cinque Terre or for the packed streets of Venice. Meanwhile Genova retains secret pockets of that quiet stately elegance that has won the hearts of people throughout the centuries. Havens of beauty at the end of a funiculor ride or via an elevator that takes you up a hillside to a panoramic view of the city. Tiny shops on ancient streets full of the most beautiful things. Churches and cathedrals with stories woven tightly around them and architecture that spans centuries of development within a single structure.

Those who judge this city externally or too quickly are sentenced to missing the density of experiences that lie hidden in its depths. It’s not an easy city but that, perhaps, is what makes it so very rewarding. It complex and character-filled.

Gustave Flaubert adored it, Petrach wrote of it. Flemish painter, Peter Paul Rubens modeled his house here in Antwerp on palazzi in Genova. And Richard Wagner wrote to Minna Wagner, back in 1853, ‘To offer you on your birthday what I deem the greatest gift, I promise to take you on a trip to Genoa next spring …’

The greatest gift, a trip to Genoa. Richard Wagner and I surely agree.

Source: Richard Wagner quote: from the Genoa Guide, published by Sagep Turismo.