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.

My last year

My last year

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.