Upstate Update #1 - 15 days to go

It doesn't take that long for me to process data.. yeah right. It's just 10 months I'm putting off this post, not that much. Just 10 months since I won the competition and there are 15 days to go 'til I leave, but I have no freaking clue where the days in between flew.

TravelEng 2 - A lifelong summer

"Close your eyes, breathe deeply and tell me: what's the first memory of this summer?"

If I had to carry out this delicate task I gave to my students, I'd have said: the taxi driver asking me "ok, where should I drop you off?" And I, without a clue, "at the central office?"

TravelEng 1 – The crossing

When you've sent your contract two months ago and not heard anything from the school, it's always a comfort to receive an email the night before leaving "excuse me, may I ask you when are you going to arrive here? Signed: your boss." Oh well.

TR # 22 - Missing

The exact date of my return to Italy must be a secret for most of my friends waiting for me, but now it's useless to deny that the date is near or perhaps even imminent or maybe already gone. It's therefore time to take stock of and to count the things I will miss and those that I will instead be happy to leave behind.

TR # 21 - Moonlight and Valentino

I'm Luna, it's February 14, I'm going to see another concert by Bon Jovi. Could I choose a different title from that of the film starring Jon?!

TR # 20 - Belonging

Outside it's -20 °, very good reason not to go out, and I look on the internet the latest episodes of "Che tempo che fa" from Italy, all focused on the referendum about the Fiat-blackmail. To cheer myself up a little, I open a folder always present in my mail, it's called "Dialogues" and collects all the most interesting and literary stimulating emails that I and others have written over the years. I open it with a specific purpose, to go and read the emails I wrote when I was 17, full of "x" and "k" and full of enthusiasm, anger and energy for my first encounters with the world. There's not much time left to my return to Italy and I'm sort of taking stock of my months here and looking back once more to that first trip to London. After coming back I was asking a friend: "Tell me, may there be a "Britain nostalgia"? Yes because I always heard of the "Africa nostalgia", but what I feel seems just like it! It was a vacation -but more than that, a life experience- truly wonderful and exciting." And he replied to me that yes, there may be all kinds of "nostalgia", or better it's a "situation nostalgia", the nostalgia of those places and moments that will probably never come back. Ten years later I know for sure that I will not suffer from the "Toronto nostalgia" because no matter how much I appreciate this experience and what it gave me, I won't regret these places and this hectic life (but I'll leave to another post the list of what I'll miss and what I won't). And I don't suffer from the "Italy nostalgia" either, although I miss my loved ones and sometimes the places, because I know I don't belong to my homeland either. Here it is, this is precisely the right verb: to belong. I want to find something or someone to belong to. It 's something you often see around, in those who talk about a place that's dear to them or about a loved one: there's a different light in their eyes, a very special excitement in the voice of those who speak to you about what they belong to. Some people have a "Colombia nostalgia" and staring into space they describe the difficulty in breathing for the thin air and the lack of seasons as something awesome, then there are those who have the "Italy nostalgia" although they have almost never been there, and you can almost see the image of the countryside and endless olive tree groves, and there are those who talk like that about a loved one, and no matter where they are in the world they know they belong to that person only and they feel at home anywhere. And I saw the "Europe nostalgia", the Brazilian saudade, and many other situation nostalgias. But I still have to find a place of which I can talk like that, and I'm strongly determined to find it. Meanwhile, I can say I'm happy to have lived this experience fully, in the sense that while sometimes things happen too fast for you to realize, in these months I have enjoyed every instant at the very moment in which I lived it. And almost without realizing it, I have accumulated experience in my field that will be invaluable in the future. So I'm definitely happy with what I got on a personal level and continue my search, going home for a pit-stop.

TR # 19 - The Ghost of Christmas Past

Nice to meet you, Luna Scrooge. I don't think it's a recent thing, my hatred for Christmas. I mean. First, when I was a child it meant I would stay at home from school and I liked studying a lot. Pureblood nerd, here I am. Then there was the stress of the tree (and every other year, also the Manger): sacred hush while Pa' unrolled the lights and equally sacredly swore at full blast because some didn't work. And then he tried to explain to us why some cables worked even if a light was broken while others not… mysteries of the electricity on parallel cables or similar stuff. Then bad words and crazy screaming if we didn't put the larger balls near the trunk and wild complaints if the tree was real (it only happened twice, I think) because it scattered pine needles anywhere. Shortly, 'twas a penance. And then the Christmas lunch that, although funny and very pleasant in the result, required a preparation and a long job of diplomacy between supporters of the lunch at home and supporters of the restaurant that Wikileaks would make a fortune out of it. And my family -that we weren't properly conventional wasn't yet clear?- follows the politics of “if you need something we can buy it during the year, there's no need to wait for Christmas” therefore there weren't even heaps of presents to unwrap. On the bright side, I found when I was 4 a more than rational explanation to Father Christmas and I keep sticking to it (I'll write about it in another post, it would be too long). What?? Do you still believe in Santa Claus? Not mentioning the fact that I met him when I was 18, yes, I still believe in Father Christmas. Just saying, you still believe in Berlusconi… let's make a challenge!! He's sure cheaper and less harmful for the general well-being, the Father I mean, rather than the Papi.

And let's admit it too, the more years go by the worse it becomes, the Christmas period. It feels like here in North America, everybody rushing to the malls to buy a whole lot of generally useless gifts, everybody stressed out to decorate their houses according to the latest fashion's criteria, God forbid the neighbors and guests don't see that they're not up-to-date… how boring! And then, daily demonstrations of an alarming hypocrisy -that I have especially noticed since I entered the job world- with gifts exchanged among people who can't stand each other, pretending to believe in the spirit of Christmas when instead they can't see each other and they would kick and punch each other rather than buying a “little thought”! The Japanese know it best, since they hardly celebrate at all and they even work on the 25th!

Then during the last few years life -or bad luck- also got in the way to create ugly memories to me, all concentrated in the dull days between Christmas and New Year's Day. There are memories of death, of diseases diagnosed on the 31st and toasts made in the entrance hall of a hospital. Memories of police officers at the work place, of crisis of anxiety and attacks of panic for the situation that had been created on my work place. And then it was iron's turn. Yes because around this time one year ago I started making iron injections for a serious anemia of which I was absolutely unaware before the blood tests. And on December 28 last year they very wisely thought of doubling my dose of iron, causing an anaphylactic shock that scared me more than anything ever. I haven't spoken about it a lot since then, but the feeling of losing control over my own body, with my heart pulsing like crazy in my back and the pressure rising and falling in a minute -I remember everything as if it happened yesterday. Just as I remember, on the 30th of December, the overwhelming terror to go out of my house: on the threshold I almost went back in because I was terrified at the idea of feeling sick again, not being able to control my body, even fainting or something like that. I fought the fear, went out, and nothing happened. Then on New Year's Eve we made a promise with Gica: this year would have been different, enough celebrations in Mestre square with the lame concert and drunk guys throwing firecrackers.

Said and done, I celebrate it in Toronto City. And here they know their stuff. The inauguration of the Christmas period was on the 27th of November, with a big celebration in the main square, a million people, fireworks hitting the buildings (yes, says Ma', they must have indoor fireworks............) and Christmas music while all the people were skating as if we were shooting “Home Alone 2: Lost in New York”. And once I left behind the baggage of the Christmas' duties and the snow fell, with no gifts to buy, I feel like smiling more than anything else. I even decorated our house with small houses, penguins, little trees and snowflakes. I also drank the snow (that is, I held my mouth open until a snowflake fell within) and I'll probably go throwing snowballs very soon, in the nearby park. The Ghost of Christmas Present seems therefore much optimist and even not knowing what the Ghost of Christmas Future has ready for me, I count on succeeding in throwing behind my shoulders every negative memory brought by the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Sincerely,

Luna Scrooge.

TR # 18 - In excelsis Deo

Corrections on the title won't be accepted, since I spent 2 hours to decide what the right form was. And if the endings are random, the thought is what counts.

The day begins talking about funerals. No, it's not fault of my ancestral pessimism or of the snowstorm or some other tragedy, but only of intercultural exchanges between me and Toy, the Japanese. Because if in Italy there's a monotonous Catholic monotheism, in Japan they have more imagination and freedom of thought. In fact, almost all of them are Buddhists. And they dress in black and white (red and yellow are the colors of Tibetan), and watch the corpse all night eating sushi in the company (of the dead, of course). Then they cremate him and make the funeral at the temple. You spend a King's ransom (or better, a Buddha's ransom) for flowers, coffin, urn, and name. Yes, the name. Because when someone dies, they're assigned a new name. It's the monk to decide the name, according to the money he's been given. Then we talk about privacy, spirituality and mafia behavior. Ever heard of protection money?!

But the day doesn't end here, in fact I'm invited to a concert in a church in Christmas theme, with music by Monteverdi, Palestrina, Vivaldi. Ma' has no doubts: "Vivaldi?! Of course, they'll play the Four Seasons!" No. It 's a Christmas concert. And in fact they are two hours of magnum mysterium, lullaby (as if I needed it...), ode a te probo vir, and then Vivaldi: Magnificat and Salve Regina. Help. I had never been to an Anglican church... or rather, never except as a tourist. The ceilings are high, OK. Seatings on the benches are strictly for 3 or 4, which you can tell by the number of prayer books in the prayer-books-holder. Books have not only text, but also the score of the songs, how professional. The pews are hard as all the pews, and next to the books there are tickets to be put in the offertory "I'm not giving cash because I already support this church with Visa or Mastercard". Oh. Speaking of privacy, the supporters are listed at the end of the concert's booklet... starting from the most generous down to the least, but is that normal?! The church is decorated with Christmas lights and Christmas trees, and after some minutes I understand what's weird: we don't have garlands, or perhaps one under the statues of saints, and the tree is a pagan decoration, for goodness sake! On the other hand, we have miles of cribs. Finally the concert begins, and I am surprised to like it ... more or less. But being surrounded by slumbering spectators when not sound asleep, I'm delighted by my stamina. And I ask myself technical questions: why that unknown instrument, the theorbo, is so long and unwieldy? The soprano improvises her trilling or Vivaldi had written, "On the lu of hallelujah trill 7 times A-G-A-F-E-C-B sharp"? The Mystery of the Faith wasn't the death and resurrection of Christ (which among other things, to explain it to Toy this story seems an episode of Twilight)? So why the magnum mysterium of Palestrina is summarized in the fact that it was mysteriously allowed to an ox and a donkey to see our Lord? I'm confused, what a mystery. During the break, the Sleeping Spectator wakes up because of the applause and with perfect nonchalance turns to me and begins to comment on the technical aspects of the choir ... you were sleeping, what do you know????! But I appreciate him as one of the few Canadians -if not the only one- starting a completely random conversation with no ulterior motives. He tells me about the Christmas Carols, which are really a tradition here, with the singers who used to go door to door singing.

After the concert, with a well-wishing "Goodbye, stay warm" of my new friend, I decide to ignore him and take a brisk walk. With a temperature of -5°, that with the wind feels just -12°. And the flying ice -because if it doesn't snow how do they say? Icerains?- whipping my face while I admire the megavillas behind my house. Finally I get home and I take refuge under the blanket, in the warmth. Thank God... or thank the heating.

TR # 17 - Shoelace

"The people you've touched,

the way you've touched them

I hope they've touched you too,

'cause in this life it's hard to tell

what's false and what is true."

I don't remember how old I was, maybe five or six, maybe even four. I used to chase Ma' like a shadow, shoelace in hand, begging her to teach me how to tie my shoes. And I spent hours blocking the blood flow of her arm to practice, while Gogo and Pa' were trying to teach me the technique in theory with their typical masculine logic ("Take the lace, turn it, then slip the top into the hole and pull the other side".... men ....). I don't know if any of them has memories of this stage of my childhood, but certainly they don't remember why I had it. I was terrified that Ma' could die at any moment without having time to teach me to tie my shoes (and this says a lot about my confidence in the teaching methods of the males of the house). I don't know where I've heard it, perhaps it was Freud perhaps an episode of CSI or Criminal Minds, that this is a very common phase for every child, reckless fear of seeing their parents die suddenly. Instead the laces' thing was just my obsession.

Tonight Tat returned home with shining eyes, a lump in her throat and a calling card ready to call her boyfriend, whose father died suddenly. He had a cancer, but died for a regurgitation due to the chemo. He was 55. I've been there, Gogo's been there, and in our way we were both far when they needed us the most. Gogo gave up his Erasmus, I came back with my boyfriend back then to help arranging the funeral. It's one of those experiences that you don't wish to anyone, but that teaches you more than you learn in decades of school. It teaches you to be strong for everybody, to fight back your own tears so you can dry everybody else's, while you're waiting for your turn to fall apart that never comes. It teaches you the meaning of the word "impotence" and it brands it in your heart, in that guilt that-no matter if you're near or far-makes you think about what you could have done said changed and instead you've not done said changed. It teaches you to reconsider your life, your future projects in the light of what happened, because when death hits you so close it also inevitably changes your life.

I was taught to seize every opportunity and to learn as much as possible from everything that happens to me and from the people I meet. And if today to learn how to tie my shoes I can Google or Wikipedia "tie shoes" and I'm fine, to learn to appreciate life and decide what I want and what I have to change I have no other choice but to observe the world, the people, and myself in all this. And every day, remember what I learned and who taught me. Meanwhile, shoelace in hand, I begin to review.

TR # 16 - Life is now

In Toronto it's All Saints' Day but for Canadians it's only the day after Halloween.Yesterday we saw the first snow -yes, in October!- but soon it stopped because the temperature dropped below zero -yes, always in October! So I go to the Walmart for a stock of heavy stockings "in pure bamboo".... .... .... which don't have "denari" to indicate the thickness, like in Italy, nor sizes but only weight "40-49 kg" or "50-59 kg" as if they were goddamn diapers! It's two days since I Toy Yu and Tat moved to our new house that is not so new because it's the house that my fellow CELTA mate Al left us and that I knew well from when I did the course. Ma' put me immediately on guard, "clear understandings breed long friendships, establish immediately some rules for who washes and cleans eh?!" Yes, we and our Italian mentality... just got out of my room I found Toy and Yu -Japanese and Korean, respectively, with vacuum-cleaner and sponge to wipe invisible stains ... right, Toy teaches home economics, I forgot. And I become the expert on laundry, dishwasher, groceries, cleaning, oven ... who knows how long will it take for them to realize that I don't have a clue about all these things! The first Italian dinner is a success, despite the flavorless olive oil here in Canada and Barilla spaghetti that are not like spaghetti Barilla in Italy ... and the first laundry is a huge success despite the 70-minutes dryer on clothes whose labels indicate in capital letters DO NOT TUMB DRY, DO NOT SPIN, HAND WASH! Well from now on we'll ignore the labels. It seems strange to be able to wash your hair on Monday, and be able to leave the bed unmade 'cause it's my room and there are no more MM's bollockings and to her face we spend every night together and have dinner together, contrary to what she thought.

And like a deja-vu the Internet works in fits and starts and I slip back into the despair of the early days here and I think maybe I'm a bit tired of Canada and I'd love to go back home. Then another deja-vu and the pre-sales for the 2011 concerts of Bon Jovi open, like exactly one year ago the 2010 pre-sales and I bought two tickets for the North America that would bound me to leave despite the visa despite the money despite everything. Now I buy a ticket to Toronto on Feb. 14 and one for Udine July 17. And then Tat tells me that she begins to regret having to return home soon, to Brazil, because this is a unique experience while her family will always be there waiting for her ... saudade de Canada, as they say. And then I remember Al's words, on the eve of her departure for Vietnam she said: "Yes, I'm afraid, but despite everything I know that I'll be exactly where I'm supposed to be" and unwittingly quotes word for word a song by Bon Jovi, the "Welcome to Wherever You Are" that gives the title to my blog and I should remember more often. Then I take a walk in the park near the house and my iPod decides to play the song I was listening, crying, while waiting for the plane that would take me here: Ligabue tells me "and also the stars fall, some both inside and outside.. for every wish that you make, another hundred are left out ... no worries". And looking at the dazzling colors of the Canadian leaves, that fell to the ground creating a layer of pure poetry for my eyes... it almost makes me want to see how it will look with the snow. Not that long to wait, I guess. And then there's Jon waiting for me for Valentine's Day, I can't miss that. But then he'll be waiting for me back home, and certainly I can't miss that either.

TR # 15 - New horizons

For some time I've been neglecting my blog and I apologize to those who, alarmed by my absence, wrote me heartfelt appeals to have news from the Land of the Maple Leaf. I wasn't lazy but -as my master's colleagues know too well- I was fully immersed into the maze of teaching English, which made me lose sleep but alas not pounds, because of the abundance of Nutella, and I was officially given the title of Teecha of the English language. But beyond that, the course was a valuable source of teaching practice, and a valuable source of new friends, fellow teachers as well as tireless travelers which will add new locations on my map of "friends around the world." And the first day of school my horizons changed completely. No, I'm not speaking metaphorically. During the admission test to the students I met two Italian students, Franz and Pav, who unlocked the mystery of the extendable visa and the next day I received an email for a job. Shortly, I found out I had the opportunity to extend the visa for another six months by making a simple request. Then, a local association of private teachers called me for an interview. The interview went well, I have the first students and tomorrow I will start classes around Toronto. I'm still amazed by the unpredictable amount of people who want to learn Italian here and I don't know what to expect from the first lessons.

My horizons ahead have therefore completely changed: no Vancouver in November, no going home, no Christmas with my family... or Easter... or birthday. I'm not excited about the prospect of the Canadian winter but I take this opportunity to gain experience and curriculum, knowing that I will not come back to Canada soon and I can enjoy all the time here trying to make the best out of it. I will also try to teach English and not think too much about my home.

Meanwhile, I think about tomorrow -the first class- and the move later this month. The rest... we'll see.

TR # 14 - Among the secessionists

After preparing Foulie (the suitcase) with the bare essentials, I leave late at night for the streetcar stop, destination coach. Destination of the coach: Quebec, the separatist region of Canada. When I arrive at the bus stop I'm filled with doubts: on which of the three buses do I have to go?! The doubt is dispelled by Brit, "La Negra" as will be renamed by my fellow Spanish travelers: follow me, you're with me! So I sit down, the group travel bracelet on the wrist and seek a comfortable position to sleep during the trip... the search goes on for the whole trip keeping the well deserved rest at a safe distance. The landscape outside the window is monotonous, as I already knew: green green green green green green green water boooringgg. At 3 am we stop at a gas station to go to the bathroom: the place is dingy, but music comes from a radio... French music, you can tell we have crossed the border. I enjoy the sunrise at 6.30 am from the bus, a spectacle beyond description that only me and the driver witness, given that all the others are sleeping -good for them. Finally arrived in Quebec City we refresh ourselves with a tasty breakfast not included in the price and there I make the acquaintance of four Spanish women who are easily convinced that my understanding of Spanish is quite good... forcing me to try and catch a word every five, without much success. Without any time to rest we're back on the bus to go walking in the city center. Brit tells us about the history of Quebec City, where the governor stays during the summer, where there's the last Canadian fort since the war, where the French fought fiercely against the British enemy. The war lasted exactly 10 minutes. Maybe the soldiers at the end of the line had not even pointed their guns yet. And the French were humiliated, but you'd better not tell them. There is a tree with a cannonball embedded in the roots: for the French it's the symbol of their culture that grows and develops in spite of the English bully trying to subdue it... everybody laughs at this latest proof of French arrogance except for the group of French speakers, especially the Parisian-like girl who poses as a great diva and is perfectly in line with the spirit of the Québecois. After the tour of the old-European part we have five free hours. And the question arises: why couldn't we relax a bit in the hotel instead of hastening to walk around the city?! I take this opportunity to go to the park and sleep on a bench... what a relax! Then I take the public bus back to the hotel asking the driver to warn me when I should get off and take a look around: The hotel is "on the right" according to Brit... except you forgot to mention the need to cross a highway hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Finally I get in the room where I will divide the tiny bed with one of the Spanish girls and where the air conditioner is loud as ever, kinda like the bathroom's exhaust fan. No time for a shower 'cos it's already time for dinner at an Italian restaurant downtown. Risk-loving as I am I order a pizza and, surprise surprise, it's even decent! Only it's small, but OK, never mind. I'm sitting with a group of Brazilians who believe that an Italian like me must certainly understand Portuguese.... gulp. We go back on the bus where I can appreciate the driver's long face (at my question "ooohhhh how come there are fireworks over there?" his reply is "Well, there are fireworks. Period." ... I know he has French ancestors...) and it's finally time to sleep in a real bed, ready for day two.

The morning begins with another abundant breakfast (considering what I pay, I try to make it as abundant as possible!) and after paying I get chased by the waiter "did you pay??!" Yes moron, yes. On the bus once again I try to sleep in vain and I see Montreal approaching. Mostly you see the gigantic roller-coasters of the amusement park approaching... are we going??! No. The bridges of Montreal deserve a separate chapter. The one we're crossing was involved in secessionist attacks in the 70s (yeah sure, 3 years of terrorism with a couple of bombs here and there... amateurs!) while the near one was built on an Indian burial site: despite the warnings they continued to build it, and it collapsed twice killing 89 people, exactly the same number of people buried in the cemetery; the one we see in the center's mini-Eiffel towers on top just to celebrate a bit of French culture. We stop to photograph the Olympic stadium and while Brit draws a veil on its history, I learn from the inclement travel guide that the costs to build it doubled in the 70s, they made a project for the expensive opening roof that never worked and especially the stadium was hardly used at all during the Olympic Games and Canadians are still paying for it with taxes. The designers were Italian, confess! We spend the rest of the day shopping which has never been a passion of mine in Italy, let alone when I travel. "There isn't much to see, only the Notre-Dame church" says Brit... not much, you say! But given that it rains and the umbrella is safely in Toronto, I resign myself to go shopping. Among others, "Noël Eternel" stands out, the store that sells only Christmas stuff. I feel like the Little Match Girl who spies on the homes of rich people: used as I am to see exclusively religious articles, I'm amazed at the astounding variety of decorations for the tree (there's even the Little Mermaid!) and Charles Dickens village houses with even skaters on the ice. I buy a couple of souvenirs and take pictures of the cathedral of Notre Dame, then I go back to the bus. Destination: the Eaton Centre, which is exactly the same shopping center as in Toronto. Argh. The only peculiarity is that it's almost all underground, as during the winter in Montreal they live most of their time underground to avoid going out. As I head back to the bus I find another church worthy of pics and then spend the evening at the hotel, bored to death.

The third day begins with an included breakfast and continues with the riddles that Brit gives us into the bus as we head to Ottawa. On the way we see the prime minister's residence and that of the governor manned by guards of the Queen (the ones with the bear's hat, for instance). After having passed all the consulates of various countries and having appreciated the mega-spider in front of the art museum (spider worth millions of dollars...) we get downtown and head to Parliament Hill. The queue to visit the Parliament buildings is endless, I get through the controls (where the policeman opens both my phones... yes, I have two phones, what's wrong with that??!) but since it's finally a beautiful day I give up the tour and go for a walk around the city. Ottawa is very nice, the stroll along the river is pleasant and the landscape is beautiful. I admire the monument to one of the greatest champions of Canadian hockey (we don't have monuments to Totti or Alberto Tomba!) and I head back to the bus, destination: the 1000 islands.

The cruise on the thousand islands (on the border between the U.S. and Canada) is worth the whole trip, the views are breathtaking and the atmosphere is of total relaxation. Just across the border, we see what is now a luxury hotel but was originally built as a private castle expressly as a gift from a loving husband to his wife.... Canadians are the best, nothing to say about that. As usual Vodafone is grateful, and I receive EIGHT text messages on the inexpensive rates to call from the U.S. ... gulp. It's time to go back, and I enjoy the awkward efforts of the sixteen-year-old Spanish guys to conquer their peers... she won't give it to you darling, you'd better sleep!

Finally, I'm sure that Montreal is worth a visit as well as the other two cities, but I'll come back to make sure. Aside from the absurd organization, I still found what I was told, namely that Québec is very European from the disposition of the roads to the buildings and even the smells, and of course the language. A breath of home overseas.

TR # 13 - Teecha

With Rui it was love at first sight. No matter that he's engaged, and to a polyglot too. Yes because she speaks "another European language". Really? What? Italian? No. English? Obviously she speaks English, we're in Canada! No, another one. OK, so French? Spanish? German? Russian? No, no. I got it! Taiwanese!

Yes, because Rui is six years old, he's been in Canada for not even a year and doesn't have a very clear idea of geography. It's hard to make him understand where Europe is and even more that Canada does not border with Africa. Rui has come as a surprise, at the very last moment his mother decided to enroll him to the summer camp where I volunteer as a teacher -Teecha as they call me here- of English to recently immigrated Chinese children. They know me as "the Italian, the one who can make pizza" which is now an inevitable association. The supervisor immediately puts her confidence in me and considers me the group leader, which doesn't make me feel calm at all. Then I ask Rui if he wants to play something. Yes, Teecha! Let's play Tic-Tac-Toe! Which if I was brought up in Canada I would know is what we call "tris" but this is not the case. And how do you play it? "Eeeehhhhmm it's a game.... That is it's easy. It's just a game. With paper and pencil. And you draw the lines so and so and then you put the ball and then you win." Then we play other games and children often re-create the rules themselves. Ste in particular, only to lose anyway... "Sure I made the rules myself, but I must also respect them!" Then we study Canada and it's assumed that I know how many provinces and territories there are or how many points the maple leaf has. But I know the official languages, and also Rui: "English and....... Chinese!" no honey, it's French! "But I know many people who speak Chinese and no one speaks French! And then you know that they do everything in China? Also this case is made in China because there they do everything and then they sell all over the world!" Rui likes to exercise, therefore every day he wakes up at 6 am to go jogging do tai-chi and then have breakfast before going to school or to us. What sports do you like? "Baseball, hockey... football, soccer..." and here we have to write your favorite sport, what is it? Badminton! How do you spell it? " Sure you don't want to write baseball hockey or any other sport that I KNOW the spelling of?! "No, I like badminton!" gulp.

At the summer camp it's important to do many different activities. Manual activities such as origami (Rui says that I'm doing pretty well), projects such as "my home in Canada," baking cookies and playing outdoors. On his project Rui is doing the highway and the river and the bridge over the river. Why don't we also draw the wooden planks on the bridge? "Eeeehhhh. Eh. Because then if the car goes on the wood it falls into the river." Yeah. It's true. But maybe there's the asphalt under the wood? "Eeeeehhh. Yes then I color gray underneath so you see it." What's that, a plane? "Eeeehhhh no. It 's a rocket in the rocket-station which is close to the river." And why are you doing people on horses? Who are they? "They are soldiers then there's the king here and that is the tower of the soldiers and the great one for the king." But why are you doing the soldiers? What are they for? "Eeeehhh. Because they are the ones who protect us from evil and so we are sure that Canada is free, right?" Self-evident. Meanwhile, I make a car "very good, put it on the highway, Teecha!" Now write the words you learned "...eeehhh car? King?" Are you sure they're new words? "Hihihihi eeehhhh eeehhhh not really?"

Before cooking you should learn the words related -it would be even better that I knew them but never mind: break the eggs, you know what that means? "Eeeehhhh break like when you break stuff?" exactly, precisely. But what do you like to eat? "Ooooohhh I eat a lot of rice!" Really? And do you cook it? "Eeehhhh no, grandma cooks it for breakfast. Ohhh but at lunch yes, I cook! Do you know how to do it?!" no, tell me! "You take the rice Teecha you put it on a plate, open the microwave, press the button, wait for the third beep and then it's ready!" Better than Chef Ramsay. Then we make cookies and I pretend to be able to measure in cups and teaspoons because the other teecha's afraid of the dough. And fortunately she's not there the following time, when we eat half the dough raw... she would've fainted. The supervisor then asks me to teach good manners... but why so much confidence in my native culture?! Rui loves his parents, rightly so. But "they just arrived from China and sleep all the time, they don't work!" tells me the first time, so they can follow him in the garden ("like eeeehhh you bury the seeds, water, and after a while the plant comes up... but a couple have been eaten by the raccoons!") or take him to swim ("yes, because here I go to the swimming pool but in China instead my mother took me to a cold cooold river which is big like a sea! "). Then his father gets a job and what does he do? "Oh, a Chinese job. He like... sells. Sells Chinese fruit." So Rui stays with his mother and asks me: "But do you believe in God?" eeehhhmmmm... you? "Nooo, hahahahaha. How could a God exist who doesn't have a mother? I think my mom is always there, but God has no mother!" His logic is flawless. We also go on field trips. In which the supervisor gives me again the role of leader. And asks me at inopportune moments, "how many kids do you have?" just when I've not counted them for at least two hours. But in the end everyone arrives safe and sound. At the science center I don't know whether to keep an eye on the children or the teenage tutors who play more than them, then we visit the oldest theater in Toronto but Rui only remembers the ghost upstairs Sam the trombonist: "We have visited the haunted house!" ehm not really. At the amusement park Rui is too short for almost everything but the next day "eeehhhmmm can I tell you something, Teecha? eeehhmmm just wanted to say thank you for giving me the money to shoot even if I didn't win the toy." You're very welcome darling. Rui always wants me to play with him "eeeehhhmmm Teecha, would you mind playing with me?" And at Taboo and Apples to Apples we make an awesome team together. And even with the sand castles we aren't bad at all. Rui perhaps didn't learn a lot from me during these weeks but has an excellent memory: he perfectly remembers the first thing I taught him and he tells it to me while we say goodbye the last day.

"Eeeehmmmmm can I tell you something?" Of course, anything you want. "Now when I see the Moon in the night sky you know you know you know what I think? I think of my Teecha because Luna means Moon in Italian!" I hug Rui and maybe watching the Moon I'll think about his round face too and the wonderful person he's destined to become.

TR # 12 - I've seen a million faces, and I rocked them all

Whoever is not a true Bon Jovi fan can skip this post without any painful consequence.

But instead you faithful reader who keep on reading despite already knowing the topic, here is the chronicle of the second concert of this year, the sixth overall, of the most... most rock band in the world. My afternoon starts with the usual long-sleeved BJ shirt -what was I thinking?! - an atrocious hot, a hotdog and a hot water bottle at the stand. I head to the Rogers Centre at 5.30 pm, admiring the kitsch sculpture above the entrance representing supporters cheering on the athletes. I put myself in line at the gate and in the meanwhile the stand of the local radio station plays BJ songs at full volume while the lady guard tells us: "we hope you enjoy the show!" The building is huge but honestly I imagined it even bigger, considering it is a hockey and baseball arena. Canadians are smart: instead of putting a normal soil of any material they covered the field with fake grass, which is among the most uncomfortable things to walk on. The average age of viewers is incredibly high, with hale old guys ready to rock out with the 80s' hits of our idols. Of course there are also 80s' girls dressed in improbable matching colors and leather skintight leggings on thighs that they'd be better not show off with such impudence.

Already during the opening act I realize that for the first time I'm in a closed structure, rather than in a stadium or an arena. The acoustics are terrible, the sounds echo and the echo is unbearable. Good, very good. I have the opportunity to deepen the problem with the second performer of the evening, Kid Rock. I don't know much about him, except that he has long hair and a huge tattoo on his back, plays rock and metal with hints of country, that he's well-hung since the video shot during the story with Pamela Anderson (strange, a scandal related to our Pamelona!). Instead I find out that Kid Rock kicks ass on stage, has a stage presence and energy beyond description and also finds time to insult Britney Spears (here we don't do that shit, here we play live!) He ignites the audience with his most famous hits ("All summer long ", for one thing), but is also capable of much more intimate country ballads like "Picture", originally a duet with Sheryl Crow. And finally, it's time for Bon Jovi. Again you hear the jingle "This is our house" and then they start. Jon is in good shape despite a sprained ankle, women go crazy (me included), and he doesn't wait to be asked twice. "I spend a lot of time in bed but baby I don't like to sleep no" he sings winking, and then smiles to the girls in the front row singing the most famous ballads. The opening gave me a song that I never heard live, here's the setlist: Blood on Blood, We Weren't Born to Follow, You Give Love a Bad Name, Born To Be My Baby, Lost Highway, Runaway, It's My Life , I'll Sleep When I'm Dead, We Got It Going On, Bad Medicine / Old Time Rock 'n' Roll (w / Kid Rock), Love's the Only Rule, Lay Your Hands On Me (Richie Vox), Bed of Roses , I'll Be There For You, Something for the Pain, Someday I'll Be Saturday Night, In These Arms, Work for the Working Man, Have a Nice Day, Who Says You can't Go Home, Keep the Faith. Encore: Always, Wanted Dead or Alive, Livin 'on a Prayer.

This time I'm almost moved at the thought of how much water has passed under the bridge since the first time I saw Bon Jovi live in the dramatic Padua concert in 2001 that many remember with distaste. That was before 9/11, for one thing. And now I'm here, who would have thought?! I leave the Rogers Centre with my ears plugged, the smile on my face when finding out that the radio stand is still playing Bon Jovi songs. While crossing the bridge to catch the tram and go home I sing along with thousands of other people "Livin 'on a Prayer" while the stand turns down the volume on purpose to hear our voices. "Take my hand, we'll make it I swear... we're livin 'on a prayer" we sing in chorus as we go back to our lives. Until the next gig.

TR # 11 - A typical day

The most frequent question that I'm asked from overseas is: "so tell me, what is your typical day like?" Wide question, no doubt about it. Well, my typical day starts at about 9.30 am, when my housemates go to school and I get up for breakfast, doing the slalom on the wooden planks of the floor and managing to ride roughshod over the creakiest ones, to the delight of MM. Then it's time for the daily session of psychoanalysis of the blinds. Yes because the American-style blinds are a sort of curtains that you pull to shut and pull again to open, but mine are not very eager to open. So they almost reach the floor before I convince them that their fate in this world is also to open, during the day. One of them took its mission so seriously that now all of a sudden it rewinds itself at night, of its own free will. Sigh.

After this effort, I make a beautiful Italo-Canadian breakfast: toasted bread with a considerable amount of Nutella, toasted bread with a thin abundant layer of jam, and Oreos. Then I leave and I venture to the city, according to the commitments I have. Commitments that will inevitably include the use of public transport, given the size of Toronto. The bus stops are at practically every intersection of major roads, and you don't need to hitchhike because the always angry drivers are skilled psychologists: they know by themselves if you are waiting for the bus or for the light to turn green. And you don't even need to request the stop at the subway, because everybody already knows that half of the passengers will get off. At first I didn't understand why the streetcar recommended to "make sure that the traffic is stopped before you get off", since the stops were on the curbs... Then I took the streetcar on the southern streets and I understood. Because they stop in the middle of the road and we must hope for the cars to be VERY careful and respectful of the rules of the road, or you may end up splattered like a cat on the highway. Given that in Canada they frequently commit suicide, it happens that sometimes the subway is closed down to retrieve the body of the unfortunate one... and so we run to take the shuttle bus, which at rush hour takes us commuters to the nearest station announcing "there you go Ladies and Gentlemen, thanks for flying with us." Haha so funny. Among many things, buses lower to help those who have strollers or those who have difficulties walking, instead bicycles can be loaded on the rack in front of the bus... and how will the driver make sure they are well secured?! Well, maybe he will realize it as soon as he leaves again.

If I need to shop I go to the big Mall, in particular the Wal-Mart is the best stocked and cheapest supermarket and instead at the drugstore you can buy medicines. Here in particular there are entire shelves of over-the-counter medicines (including Fisherman's Friend, which in Italy are candies and here are cough drops...), the counter for the prescriptions at which doctors create the amber bottles that you often see in the movies and then... the post office. Yes, in the drugstore. Then there are a lot of food shops too in the Mall: you can have something at the various Starbucks and McDonald's but also in the traditional Italian eateries... like the Sbarro chain. Now, seriously. I won't make easy jokes but I'm sure my Italian friends and especially the Venetians will understand my concerns. How can you call a typical Italian restaurant Sbarro, especially given the North American pronunciation?! And just for English speakers' benefit, I will explain that sborro in Italian is a vulgar word for "sperm"...

The premises must be licensed to sell alcohol nor there are any alcoholic beverages in stores nor you can drink alcohol on the streets under penalty of arrest. This explains the lack of Venetian immigrants in Canada. Yes because you can not smoke inside the premises, even outdoors, so beer and cigarette... not allowed, must choose one or the other. And as in all situations of Prohibition I find out that alcohol and soft drugs are the two main plagues of Canada. The prohibition of alcohol has its advantages, however, for me since I don't drink: the desserts are absolutely non-alcoholic (no rum, no holly, no nothing!), I can order any kind of milkshake or other colorful cocktail without asking the Hamlet-like question whether it is alcoholic or not.

Upon leaving the premises everybody disinfects their hands at the Amuchina gel-like dispensers which are now everywhere and then return home. Once a week I do the cleaning, which in the language of MM is to use all the Swiffer products in rotation, and every day I have to empty the trash, carefully recycling: I can throw pads in the green bin but not their plastic bags; the cotton swabs, hair and make-up removers MUST not go in the green bin; plastic bottles should be washed thoroughly before being thrown into the blue plastic recycling bin. The police regularly searches the bins and steeply fines those who break the rules. In fact the bins are personal and are placed at the curb once a week when the truck comes to withdraw.

Then I help set the table for dinner which often includes "Italian" pasta dishes with Alfredo sauce: mushrooms, peppers, sausage, beans, tomato; Bolognese meat sauce with tomato, sausage, beans, peppers, paprika and mushrooms. MM takes her "Italian" recipes from the "Italian" cook that has a program of his own on TV. His name is Mario, he wears a crucifix on his hairy chest, his shirt open, his hair in a ponytail and a ham on his shoulder... and if he says that that is the real Bolognese sauce!

After dinner, once the dishes are washed, we retreat into our rooms, while outside you hear the music of the ice cream truck that goes away and the next day you wake up at 7 with trucks that are beginning to work on the road at improbable hours. Then I can start again, with my typical day.

TR # 10 - Waka Waka fever

30 days ago or so, I was dancing in front of the computer trying to learn Shakira's sinuous moves. Grandma Holly instead called home: "here's a thing, does your TV work?! Ooooohhhh deaaarrrr I hear a constant hum as if I had flies inside, it's unacceptable! And why can't I see Totti? And how come every player is drying his hands on his butt, I don't think that's polite!" The World Cup is started, and grandma is calibrated on the "national coach" version, with the problems of injuries and annoying vuvuzelas, the South African trumpets. Instead, I explore Corso Italia in search of a place to watch the first match, armed with the flag I bought here and so much-misplaced-confidence in our national team. I avoid the first local sports bar, full of exalted old people who sing loudly "Gloria" as if it was the anthem. Instead I sit in an ice cream shop where I order ice cream and watch the varied clientele. There is the owner's family, who speaks only dialect (I think Calabrese), and whose grandchildren answer in Canadian, although understanding his language; there are some beautiful South American girls, with light blue shirts and the myth -also misplaced, nowadays- of the Italian macho to pick up, the boy born in Canada but with a shirt that says, with the fonts of "The Godfather": "The Cup is ours", 15-year-old kids with the life-size cardboard shape of Buffon (and when Buffon injures himself the discouragement is widespread); the fortyish-year-olds who are wondering why Lippi hasn't brought Baggio... which Baggio?! No one sings the anthem but me, so I feel a bit observed and I doubt they even know it, but in the end everybody burst out clapping as an encouragement. Encouragement that is useless, as we know, and that soon turns into the frustration of the elderly owner who beats his hat against the plasma TV when he sees Lippi. I console myself with the arrival of two Canadian hot guys, who support Italy for "sympathy"... at least my eyes are pleased! For the last game against Slovakia I go back to the ice cream place for that weird Italian idea of luck that goes "even if it went wrong, you never know that if I change place it may go even worse" and there's only place outside, with a tropical temperature... but for Italy I can sacrifice! I start chatting with the other guests who are fascinated by my roots and the fact that Venice has not sunk yet and I dwell in technical explanations as to why Balotelli and Cassano were not called up... as if I knew any better, among other things! At half time, a streetcar stops in the middle of the intersection and the driver goes to find out what is Italy doing, blocking the traffic in the meantime. Unfortunately the game goes as we know and we go home downhearted, while the makeshift stands that pop up at every street corner that are beginning to sell Dutch and German flags instead of Italian ones... Yes, of course. Those I meet along the street who see the Italian flag give me their condolences as if someone had died while others stop me to ask me what happened... maybe I ask my grandmother and I can tell you. MM and other inhabitants of the area are very happy with the defeat of Italy, a little due to an atavistic dislike for the way we play soccer, a bit because the Italian ability to block every road with carousels is well known. Four years ago half the Toronto Police Service had undertaken to divert traffic due to the Italian celebrations. Not that the other Latins are any better, however: the Portuguese created 6 km queue in all directions to celebrate the advancement to the next round, with window flags, hood flags, so on and so forth. Now that the World Cup is over, and Spanish supporters celebrate the first title in their history almost no streetcars are running and some participate in the carousels; among other things, all the fans that I saw were Asian... melting pot or an excuse to pull girls?! Who knows? However, while the saddest World cup in Italian history comes to an end, the happiest for the nearby Iberian peninsula, the World Cup of Paul the Octopus who predicted all the results, the World Cup of vuvuzelas boasting a symphony orchestra, and the World Cup of Waka Waka that I eventually didn't need to learn anymore because there was nothing to celebrate... let's meet again in four years or if we believe in good luck let's go directly to 2020, with Buffon's heir in place of the beautiful (as many keep saying) Casillas, on the top of the world.

TR # 9 - Proudly

"Then there's also that stuff there ...." My adventure at the first Gay Pride in my life starts like this, with my landlady MM who announced the events of the week, snubbing a rainbow-colored newspaper clipping. "If you want to go see that faggots' parade, be sure to spray yourself with a lot of insect repellent. Because it will be full of people with HIV, and no one has ever proved it, but who can tell that HIV is not transmitted by mosquito bites?" After a considerable effort not to laugh, cry, look too horrified... and in each of these cases, not to spit my food or choke, I nodded with participation and I got back to my room. To volunteer for the Toronto Pride 2010. The next day, I received a call that assigned me to the parade as "sign-carrier", with the polite request to dress in white.I wake up early on the Parade Sunday, I dress in white and spray myself... no, not with insect repellent, but sun protection, as the temperature could reach 32° and I just got back from a strong sunburn. I reach the headquarters of the Pride volunteers, crossing the sleepy street full of closed stands that are soon to give life to the show. I queue under the sun, realizing how hard it will be to resist the heat, I sign trying to spell my unintelligible last name and I get the pass, but not the colored t-shirt because my role requires white, Ugh! While I wait I eat a slice of pizza and sip icy water, and meet my colleagues. There's the girl who's volunteering because of her curriculum (the Gay Pride enhances your CV, who would have thought?), the young boy with the eye-liner that would give anything to get his period and the guy who is very white-skinned, and is worried about not being able to keep his skin white today, the black girls, so excited to participate in the parade that they haven't slept more than one hour in three days, the fifty-year-old fit guy, who's continuously spraying himself with sun protection and never missed a parade in 30 years. It's him that informs us that in 30 years, never a parade was canceled by bad weather, and proposes a fast track for those who want to walk drinking beer (it's forbidden to drink alcohol out on the streets); it's always him who tells me, based on my roots, of his recent trip to Riccione, and how everybody burst out laughing when he said had been to Rikkione... it's my turn to translate, of course, and to explain that "rikkione" means faggot in Italian.Finally, we are summoned and sent at the start of the parade, a few blocks north. We are told that, being the 30th anniversary of the Pride, we each will bring a sign around our neck on which one year is written, with the event which marked the history of Pride in that year, and we will march in pairs with balloons tied to our wrists, at various stages of the parade. I got paired with Jed, a girl from Toronto, and we have the years 1987 and 1988. My year, '87, marks the tenth year of operation of Brent Hawkes, a Toronto gay priest, thanks to whom gay marriage was legalized in Ontario (since 2005 it's legal in all Canada) and who's always been in the forefront of the struggle for gay rights. Father Hawkes happens to be at the parade and when we meet he thanks me for the sign around my neck. The parade starts, and we are condemned to wait in the atrocious hot weather while colorful characters and various associations march (like PFLAG, parents and friends of gays and lesbians, the Community of Father Hawkes, which gathers thousands of people shouting "nothing can separate us from God's LOVE"); to prevent the lynching of the public who can't see through the balloons, they make us move to another place, and finally me and Jed can march too behind the gay Jews association and gay policemen.The mass of humanity that has gathered in the streets, on the houses, roofs, under the sun to watch the parade is beyond description. Men, women, families, children, all with the colors of the rainbow and a smile on their faces, to greet us and encourage us... one million people it's what the news say today, and I wouldn't have said anything less. Some boys hold signs on their foreheads with the rules for a happy life: laugh-smile-love-dream, many are asking us to stop to take pictures and as Jed points out to me, we turned into two numbers "Hey, 87, stop! Call the 88 as well!"... it seems to be on the red carpet, and there is also the national TV, I wonder if MM is watching me from home! At one point I understand why the group of Israeli has policemen who march before and after: some idiots among the public try to invade the parade, but they're blocked immediately, at least today should be free from politics! But the atmosphere gets relaxed again, two guys behind us improvise acrobatic rock'n'roll on the street, the truck before us plays the typical songs of the Pride, among which I find out Rhianna has been included and instead I can't hear Lady Gaga. After a two-hour parade I'm just about to collapse from the heat, but I'm proud. Proud to be part of this event, proud of a city that brings a million people on the streets, proud to represent a great man like Brent Hawkes, who's in the audience, sees me and thanks me again, when it should be me to thank him and all those like him who are fighting for the rights of those who don't have enough voice to fight alone. After the parade we head back to the headquarters and I meet a family who asks me if I can give the balloons to their child, and God forbid, I'm just glad to get rid of the weight! I finally refresh myself with icy water, pizza and vegetables to dip. Greeting Jed and the others, I head back to the subway walking down the street that this morning was still asleep, and is now in full swing. The sidewalk has a rainbow drawn to indicate the way to the subway, and all those I meet smile to me and wish me Happy Pride.On the subway there's an elderly lady, the volunteer pass on her neck. She smiles at me, I smile at her. Proudly, Happy Pride.

TR # 8 - Falling

I was very curious to finally travel on a famous Greyhound bus. Unless I found out that it's anything other than a bus, only with a grey hound drawn on. The bus station is sad and gray like in the movies, the conductor takes his time to understand the Italian pronunciation... yes because "Niagara" in Italian does not sound like "naiègra" in English, no, better keep that in mind. People are already lining up at the lane, and the happy couple with the child is already jumping the queue, as usual. We divide: the good customers directed to NYC board a huge bus, we get on a little bus because we are the poor people directed only to the falls.The scenery on the way is a highway that winds between two wings of blinding green, and occasionally the sea peeps out... oh no sorry, it's just a lake. Arrived to the village Naiègra Folz (or Niagara Falls, as we persist in writing), I realize that I no longer consulted a map since before leaving Italy. Ok, but my sense of direction tells me to go left. So I head confidently to the right, and in fact I find myself walking along the Niagara River, bound for the first attraction. The road is a highway, surrounded by Motels as seen in the movies, with neon signs at the roadside, and after half an hour under the hood of the sun I finally arrive at the Spanish Aero Car.

The Aero Car is a cable car built in 1916, which has never had an accident -we don't want to start today, right?!- suspended in space and traveling many, many hundreds of feet above the river on the border between New York and Ontario. The wait is long, so I spend it eating a hot-dog (but nothing compared to real hot dog stands); we finally board the cab, and half the trip we're on the right, half on the left of the cab to allow everyone to enjoy the show. Vodafone thanks, and sends me a text message every time I cross the border... basically, the phone vibrates continuously. Down below I see people on the rocks, and I honestly wonder how the hell did they get there, on those rocks. I thought the trip was more impressive, instead, except for the troubling wobble at certain points, the show is enjoyable and relaxing.

Out of the Aero Car, I head to the People Mover train, talking to a couple from New Jersey who of course loves Bon Jovi. Already on the train when you approach the falls area you hear the rumble from afar, and you begin to see the mess. Yes, because you feel as if you were in Las Vegas around the waterfalls, with all kinds of eating-bucks-attractions: Casino, lookout tower, amusement park, water park, Planet Hollywood, Hard Rock Cafe, so on and so forth. But if you just look away from this side of the road, forget about everything else. The water looks green, before falling. And I imagine what it must be like, to fall from there. And in all this glitter, I think, nobody thought of building a bungee jumping. It would be the only thing I would do, holy patience. The first attraction is the Journey Behind The Falls: armed with a K-Way, we admire the falls from directly behind. Apart from the shower because of the water vapor raised by the power of the falls, the view is impressive, even from the observation points behind the waterfalls as well as near it. And then the roar... you can not describe it, you can just live it.

Going from the Journey to Niagara's Fury, I wisely choose to go out... only to find out that the wind is now blowing in my direction, and I don't even have a K-Way. Soaking wet, I am now going to discover the history of the waterfalls with a new K-Way on... and I find out that I don't need it now, but later, when we enter a room with the self-propelled floor that simulates the movement of the falls, while jets of water splash upon us from the ceiling. But I stay dry because I chose the place near the guard, the only dry -a-ha!

As the cashier of Fury has given me the ticket, although it was not in the programs I go to the White Water Walk, the walk over the rapids. The queue is long, the sun is hot, will it be worth it?! Yes, the show is memorable. You walk next to the escarpment (but now, after Neuschwanstein, what will it be?) and admire the rapids, the most violent in the world (well, honestly I don't quite believe so much in this one...) that with an unstoppable energy stream down to the valley. Many records were marked on the rapids (oh no, let's not go back to the CN Tower-style records please!): The first one to cross them in a barrel, the tightrope walkers who have crossed from one bank to the other with all the appliances one can think of (there we go... ) and also with people loaded on their shoulders, the first tightrope walker to bike-cross them, even some banal swimmers, who have had their issues in order not to die.. etc. etc.

After the walk, I go to my last attraction: the Maid of the Mist. It's the historical boat, which has sailed under the waterfalls for centuries and has also recovered the only person ever to survive an accidental fall from the falls, a boy escaped unhurt from the mishap. We're provided yet another K-Way, and there's good reason for it: The boat is making his way under the American Falls, then under the Canadian Horseshoe Falls and back again. I wisely choose not to go upstairs, where I may not get wet, it's quicker to swim directly! The impact force of the wind near the falls is such as to push me a few feet back, but not enough to take away my desire to take pictures of the show, and of the rainbows in the waterfalls. Reluctantly going back, I look at the waterfalls in the distance one last time and tell myself that no, I cannot wait for the sunset or I'm never going back.

I would console me with a hot-dog, maybe at the double-decker restaurant near the station... but of course it's closed, because away from the falls everything closes at 5 pm, we are out of the mess. Low-spirited, I head for the train station, wondering what a family of Amish is doing in this place of perdition, aren't they against all forms of worldliness?! The bus arrives 40 minutes late (coming from NYC, what the hell...), and the driver also takes a break to eat and go to the bathroom. Finally I sit down, exhausted, and the last image of Niagara Falls is a limo parked in a driveway: I think it's because it's prom time, because if there is someone who really enjoys running around town with a limo, we really crossed the line. The line of beauty on one side of the city, the line of ridicule on the other side.

TR # 7 - Sightseeing Toronto

The initial phase of a transfer abroad, Hofstede teaches me, is the phase of the tourist. Okay, so let's enjoy it entirely. I have already tasted the smells and bustle of Chinatown, which you access through a door with a dragon, I've seen the water park in the distance, the Ontario Place, and the medieval house near the port, dedicated to tournaments in costume and medieval dinners. But now it's time to get serious, and buy the Toronto Pass: I have nine days to visit the five main attractions of the city, ready set go!

I start from the "castle" of Toronto, which is not a castle but the home of the eccentric Sir Pellatt, who for the joy of the very Victorian neighbors wanted to transform his house into a castle worthy of Ludwig 2nd. I chose a good day, and like me THOUSANDS of school children on field trips and even a nursing home... what a fluke. At the entrance I'm given the audio guide, too bad that the map and the signs don't make clear which number to select, which makes it unusable. Inside Casa Loma there are all sorts of stuff: bathrooms (the house dates back to 1911!) even with a shower and then lifts, secret passages, an endless wet tunnel that leads to the stables (why don't you go there in the sunshine?! ), the towers with the steep spiral staircases with hundreds of noisy kids that come down when I would go up. But the view of Toronto from the towers is worth the wait. I give up having lunch at the restaurant of Casa Loma ($ 15 a sandwich...) and instead I have lunch downtown, with a "Spanish" ricotta and spinach lasagna... wasn't that Italian?!

The evening shows a clear and cloudless sky, so I decide to visit the CN Tower. To the disappointment of Toronto people, this tower -nothing but an antenna, in fact- became the symbol of the city when, in the '70s, the telephone company and the railway company decided to join forces to build it. Soon only the Canadian National, the railway company, was left and realized the touristic potential of the tower. In fact, today 20% of the profits comes from the antenna, 80% from the tourists! Actually, the 553 meters of the tower seen from the bottom are impressive, especially when illuminated by purple at sunset. The first stage of the visit provides a dynamic show at the cinema, a show that I had already seen in Gardaland, but with the unexpected addition of special effects. In fact, when the log protagonist of the movie fell into the waterfalls.... the seats of the cinema watered us generously! And when there were crocodiles, we felt tails flapping against our legs, how disgusting! Then finally, soaking wet, you can access the tower, by a transparent elevator that goes so fast that you don't even have time to be scared. The show at sunset from 346 meters high is breathtaking, and you do not realize that those buildings are skyscrapers. I take a shit load of pictures, also from the transparent floor, and look for the exit to the observation point almost ending in the very exclusive luxurious restaurant OOPS! While waiting to go down, I read on a wall the many records marked on the CN tower: the fastest to climb it, the fastest to climb up the stairs, the fastest to climb up in a wheelchair, the tightrope walker who started from here walking on the wire to I don't know what skyscraper, the group of idiots that went down the stairs of the tower with a washing machine, a television and a wardrobe.... once I went down I took some more pictures of the illuminated tower, indescribable!

The third monument is the Royal Ontario Museum, ROM, that if anyone has visited the British Museum... Well, it's not even worth it to get in, it's enough to take pictures of the futuristic exterior.

Then it's time for the Ontario Science Centre. The journey is long, around an hour and a half, and I spend it observing the many techniques of travelers to sleep in the most absurd positions without falling. It's raining cats and dogs, so it's the ideal day to shut me up somewhere... and that's the same thought of the thousand students visiting the science center, sob.The first thing I see is a huge structure, all animated by the motion of the balls thrown by children, causing a number of mechanisms to push other balls and so on: hypnotic, I almost move a child aside and start playing... No, maybe it's not a good idea. In the center there are a lot of demonstrations, and experiments to do with all the five senses, but also to understand the perception of truth, to study the different areas of the brain, so on and so forth. After going through the rainforest, I decide to visit the Harry Potter's exhibition, like any good fan. The price is expensive, but I soon find out that it's completely worth it. Just entered, a "magician" makes me wear the Sorting Hat that assigns me to Gryffindor, and then the train to Hoghwarts waits for us, to introduce us to the Gryffindor common room, the Quidditch goals, Hagrid's hut, the giant chess, the Great Hall with candles hanging from the ceiling: all the costumes and furnishings are from the original set, I gloat as a kid in a candy store! Needless to say, the gift shop will sell wands and candy made in Hogsmeade! I leave the science center fully satisfied with my visit.

If I thought that an hour and a half's journey was long, the two hours and something to get to the Zoo are an eternity. It's equatorial hot, the site said "10 km to walk" and yet I decide not to buy the ticket for the Zoomobile train, "because" I think, "I'll buy it after..." NO, the answer is NO, you can buy it only at the entrance. The maps scattered here and there lack a tiny detail: the symbol You Are Here, therefore they're useless. So I resign myself to walk randomly all the 10 km, and three and a half hours later I'm wasted. I've never seen so many animals in one zoo: elephants, giraffes (with which I have a photo taken), zebras, rhinos, grizzly bears, polar bears (which take a nap in the shade, poor things...), lions (hidden, alas), snow leopards (hidden, to which a visitor provides her capricious little girl as a snack... but she's not acceptable to them either), peacocks strolling alongside us and ominously croaking, owls, sharks, tarantulas, marmots, snakes (brake for the snake, a sign warns the drivers... so snakes are not only in the glass cases), kangaroos, camels, gorillas... I could go on forever. After the first hour and a half under the sun, it becomes increasingly uninteresting to see all the points of observation and I begin to rant against the signs, "Howler Monkey ->" Fuck howler monkeys, I can skip this! "<- Cormorants" but who gives a fuck about cormorants, except for Alessio Boni in Tutti Pazzi Per Amore, EH??! Then I decide to take some refreshment with a slice of pizza made in Canada, and while I'm taking back control of my legs a small crowd gathers to rescue a baby bird fallen from its nest one meter from where I sit.... not even a moment's peace! The latest attraction is the pool of shaved rays -meaning that they're deprived of the stings, so you can pat them... disgusting, it feels like touching a square eel! I finally let myself fall on the seat of the bus, and almost two hours later I get on the second bus... that will not leave. Because an angry passenger refuses to pay -but doesn't get off- because he waited too long and the bus is too full so he pretends to travel for free. In order to avoid being lynched, he resolves on paying. Needless to specify the nationality of this character who approaches me to ask for some information.... Italian. And of course, I answer in English. May we never be associated!

TR # 6 - First days in Canada (No Mac, no party)

I leave Philadelphia curiously looking at the shoeshine at the airport, and wondering what the hell my neighbor is doing, so important that he's glued to his blackberry all the time. The arrival in Toronto is very heartening: in less than half an hour I'm already in a taxi, with the visa in my pocket ...nothing like the States! I notice that the greenery abounds, and I also appreciate the residential streets leading to the great shopping streets, and realize that I'll hardly be wrong when coming home: the sign "REMOVE YOUR SHOES" is visible from miles away. I immediately learn the rules and restrictions of MM, my landlady: take your shoes off, lock the door when you go out, dinner at 18.30 with food of all colors, no towels on the bed and no electricity before 9 o'clock in the evening! Gulp. I go with her to the grocery store, and notice the Canadian irony -a bit British- on the bus' windows: "Move to the rear of the bus, thank you" says the first and the second "well, maybe a little FURTHER back, THANKS. " I discover that there are no buttons to request the stop: you pull a cord that looks like a rubber electric wire and runs along the walls of the bus. On the bus and at the supermarket I hear no English at all, except by MM: I hear Russian, French, Italian (mostly dialects), Portuguese, Spanish... but then they all use English again when addressing strangers. It 's a first taste of the melting pot that Canada has managed to create over time.

On the third day in Canada, without any time to get used to the amount of paprika and garlic in the dishes of MM, my Mac surrenders to the change of voltage and dies. I bring it to the Mackhospital -the Apple Store- where the clerks talk to each other through a Macbook, and open the cash counter with an Iphone. Mackie is hospitalized, and I find myself completely puzzled. Not being able to communicate through my computer, all the shock that I didn't experience so far falls upon me, especially because of the distance from home and my loved ones. At the same time, I feel in tune with Toronto, I still feel that nothing can go wrong and that everything happens for a reason. I begin my pilgrimage looking for a job, at the Dante Alighieri (sorry, but you know...), at the gelati place Novecento in Corso Italia, on the online ads for Italian lessons, so on and so forth. Italian institutions are disinterested to say the least in the fate of compatriots on a working-holiday, even if it should be their role to promote us! Mah. At night I console myself with a stroll along the lake. On the bus there's a group of bad boys, which here means "guys who put their feet on the seats of the bus" but they later move them, apologizing, when I mention I want to sit... real thugs!! Among other things, they are six and of six different races: Asian, East European, North African, South American, African-American... again, the melting pot made in Canada. The spectacle of the lake at night is incredible: fresh air, the ideal temperature, the parks and the CN Tower in the background. Besides me there are girls who are jogging, people walking, everybody on the sidewalks of those that are not roads, but highway with sidewalks on both sides.

I've always loved the cities on the lakes, and Toronto is no exception. Here one feels safe, cannot get lost (because if nothing else, the CN Tower is a point of reference) and the transport network is so efficient, punctual and safe to be astonished when hearing those who complain -MM for example- to have to wait 5 minutes for a bus! I am going to make friends with this city, and I get ready to explore it far and wide.