What's in a name?

June 6, 2011

The past couple of weeks I have stumbled across some interesting pieces of the puzzle that is me. I suppose it started when my mother sent me our family tree. Learning that my maternal great great great great great great grandfather might have been sent as a convict to Australia in the 1800's filled me with a new sense of questioning of my identity. It was also really interesting to learn my very great grandfather's name - Joseph Jay. My brother's name is Jay, which was chosen for completely unrelated reasons but the link is uncanny. Piquing my interest, I started thinking about my own name and it's history. Growing up, I had always wanted to find my name on a keyring at a tourist shop. There were always plenty of Amanda's and Louise's but never a Cézanne in sight. And I was sure that my name had to be something more special that plain old Suzanne or Susan, as so many people had decidedly told me. Today I discovered my name history. My FIRST name, Cézanne, comes from the last name of the French, Post-Impressionist Artist "Paul Cézanne". He too was a Capricorn, born on January 19, however some 142 years before I arrived. Although he was born in Provence in France, originally his family "The Cézanne's" came from a small town on the border of France and Italy - Cesana Torinese. "The Cézannes came from the small town of Cesana now in West Piedmont, and it has been assumed that their name came from Italian origin." -  http://www.comune.cesana.to.it

My LAST name, Nataly, also has an interesting background. My paternal grandfather was born in Durban, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. This province in South Africa was colonised by the British in 1843. Invading the land that was of the African people, the British set up a sugar cane industry in the 1860s. But the farm owners had a difficult time attracting Zulu labourers to work on their plantations, for obvious reasons. So instead the cunning Brits imported workers from another of their colonies. India.  Thousands and thousands of labourers arrived  from India and as a result, South Africa became the home to a large Indian population. My very great grandfather on my dad's side was the son of an Indian labourer in South Africa. Eventually, after a feud between him and his brother, my very great grandfather localised his name to Nataly - the brother from the Province of Natal.

So where does that leave me? An Australian, British, Indian, Fijian, South African with a French name...living in Italy.

Fat Tongue Skiing

March 2, 2011

Linguaglossa, North Etna. It's my second time skiing there in the past month and I must say, even though the runs aren't the most challenging, it is breathtaking. The ski lift takes you up the side of the volcano (it's still hard to believe you can actually ski on an active volcano) and when you reach the top, the view over to Calabria and the ocean is dizzying. Any negative thoughts about Catania drift away into the clouds.

Now I wouldn't say I am the worlds most accomplished skiier but I can hold my own. My parents took me and my brothers to Mount Perisher back in Australia (yes, there is snow in Australia) when I was a teenager. And I'm sure I went on at least two trips, again to Perisher, in High School. And then there was the time on my University year abroad in Montana when I skiied at Snowbowl, Missoula with an avalanche sized hangover.

I do have to thank my brothers for being so mean and skiing off without me. It was a combination this and the unfortunate result of being the little tag-along sister that forced me to learn how to ski, just to keep up with them. There was this one time, however, that I didn't ski fast enough.

Embarrassing as it is to recall, it's a day I will never forget. My brother was way ahead of me and had followed the ski run to the left. Since he was well out of my view, for some reason I decided to ski right, ending up way off piste. And what felt like only moment laters, completely lost on the adjacent mountain. There were no people, no ski lifts, nothing. Just trees and endless snow. Naively, I had thought the stash of mini kit kats I had put in my pocket earlier would have sustained me for days if I was ever lost, but in that moment I was absolutely petrified. I remember looking down and noticing the ground was not smooth enough to ski on. I took off my ski's and decided to walk, awkwardly in the stupid boots, without destination.

After what seemed like hours but in reality might have been 20 minutes, as if from nowhere, a man on a ski mobile zoomed toward me through the trees. He commenced with an interogation, shortly followed by a lecture on how dangerous the mountains are... Okay dude, I'm a fourteen year girl and scared witless. Whatever you are going to tell me is just going in one ear and out the other.

I got on the back of the snow mobile only to fall off, head first, after about 20 metres when Mountain Man decided to go speeding off a jump. After another 10 minutes, we were back at the Perisher Ski Resort. I thanked Mountain Man, whose face remained unseen behind a pair of large Burton ski googles and one of those nineties style jester beanies that were the height of ski fashion back then, and rushed off the relay my brush with death to my parents.

Remembering this story, I can somehow sympathise with the fear that surfaced in my darling boyfriend on Sunday. It was only his second time on ski's and the whole time he had that panicked look on his face, which was worsened by the fact that 5 year old italian kids were skiing full pelt down the mountain, sans poles, like complete pro's.

By the end of the day, we had made it down the piste about 3 times, more than enough skiing for one day for a certain novice, so we headed to the Rifugio for a well deserved Pistacchio Cake soaked in a mug of Hot Chocolate - the best part indeed of a day on the slopes!

Doona days with Rai TV

February 1, 2011

I've noticed in Sicily that during winter, it always seems to be colder inside the buildings than it is outside of them. I can't understand it. I mean, fair enough that most of the year it's so hot you can hardly breathe, but in the few cold months from late November to March, I would have thought that by now some genius italian would have thought of a different way to insulate houses. Or would have at least have cottoned on to the revolutionary idea of, I don't know, carpet. My resolve is to shove a hot water bottle up my jumper and move around my apartment like I'm 8 month's pregnant. Ugg boots and all. I have two doona's on my bed, one of which becomes a cape for when I move to the lounge to indulge in a little TV time. RAI TV. I don't know why I continue to inflict Rai TV upon myself. I don't like or understand what they are talking about. The programming is rubbish and intended to keep the masses stupid. Eventually I turn to good old faithful MTV that still has the occasional program in English. Quality programming such as The Hills or Jersey Shore. And then there are my favourites, dubbed from English to Italian. McLeods Daughters; Dr Quinn: Medicine Woman; Seventh Heaven; The Simpsons! Although the Italian voice actor hasn't quite managed to capture the character of Homer. Disappointing. Regardless, if the Italians had the equivalent of a groundhog, I know that this year he would be predicting a long, cold winter. I suppose I should get out of my flannelette pyjama's. But what's that? I think I hear the theme music to Dawson's Creek.

Waiting for the Candlestick Maker

February 19, 2010

In the great tradition of Catania, once a year poor breastless Sant Agata is released from her church prison to journey the streets of Catania and bless its crazy inhabitants. It's the Festival of Sant Agata. For three days this voyage continues, with music, fireworks, Catanese people dressed in long white tunics with little black hats shouting “Cittadini, Cittadini” at the tops of their dry, husky voices.

My flatmate told me in this tradition, the local people buy candles, sometimes as big as 100 kilo’s, and carry them as a devotion to Sant Agata, asking her to answer their prayers. The bigger the candle, the bigger the ask, hence the need for these 100 kilo whoppers. So, I bought a candle, albeit a poxy 2 Euro one, and I asked her for a man. Two weeks later and I’m still waiting.

Men in my life at this moment:
• The Butcher. 31 year old ex-boyfriend in Australia. Still having contact with me. Tells me he is in love with me and wants me to come back to Sydney. Meanwhile he has started a new relationship an tells me he is trying to get over me. Confusing?
• The Baker. 24 year old Catanese Boy. Briefly dated 4 months ago. Haven’t heard from him in 3 months. Called me to organise “private english lessons”.
• The Student. 30 year old Catanese Farmer. Also my student. He has given me the 20 questions about my life and has decided that we are perfect for each other. Now has invited me on a romantic daytrip to Etna with him on Sunday.
• The Man with the Dog. Age unknown. Works in a Mr-Fix-it shop. Cute, but I think he's gay.

So I am hoping Sant Agata is working hard to find me this guy. A good looking, normal guy with a job, stable income, education, family, car, possibly a house or an apartment.........does he exist? Where is he?!?!?!

My Street

April 5, 2010

The Church Bells chime their usual melody, inviting or rather reminding the locals that it is the holy day and to come and repent. There are clouds but the sun has arrived and I am sitting on my balcony listening to the cars pass on the street below and the birds chatter in the thick shrubby trees of the piazza opposite. Oh Italy, How I love thee... let me count the ways!

A spring morning; the voice of a young Catanese boy sings “Il sole e` arrivato”; Two old men sitting on the bench in the piazza who are taking care of business; My pot plant of pink cyclamens in bloom; The view of the ocean, The thought of granita with brioche. Do I need to keep counting the ways? Really?

My concern is myself. Do I see myself happy here long term? Do I want to put down roots? Do I want to bear fruit and have birds nest in my branches? My thoughts swirl. The answer I think is yes, but I want to be sure and the fear of making a wrong choice continues to disturb me. Why can’t I trust that I am exactly where I need to be in this moment in my life? That nothing that is meant for me, will pass me by. Nothing!

A Jovanotti song plays in my head. And I realise that my thoughts are becoming more and more Italian. One bird in particular sings to me. His songs fills my heart and I am transported back to camping holidays and bushwalks in the Australia bush with my family when I was a child.

The bells call again. They remind me that everything is taken care of and I need not worry. I shut my eyes and continue to drink in the sun that has been missing for what feels like months.

The man with the dog

January 27, 2010

After 5 months of what I call eye flirtation, with a cute man that works in a random stove top/ electrical repair store near my apartment, the day arrived when we spoke. I walked past the shop and plucked up the courage to say hello. The ice was broken. We introduced ourselves and chatted briefly then I continued onto work, kicking myself that I didn’t ask him out. But my head rules told me that if a guy liked me, he would ask me out. The weekend passed and three days later we spoke again. He asked me for my number. It was at this point that I started to realise he wasn’t the man for me. His pet dalmatian was very cute. For that matter so was he. But he was extemely thin, had insanely gaunt cheeks, spoke with a lisp, smoked and I think was perhaps “nel armardio” (in the closet). He asked me out for a drink that night and against my better judgement I accepted. After work, we met and zoomed down to the local drinking hole on his scooter. As we sat and chatted about music, about life, he decided it was time to regale me with his problems of depression, anxiety and athlete’s foot. “My feet sweat a lot and they smell. It’s an illness you know, like a fungus.” At this point, not knowing whether to laugh, cry or vomit, any last shred of hope for romance vanished.

The long road to residency

March 1, 2010

So I went to the Anagrafe for what seemed like the hundredth time and entered the Office off Stranieri. The terse woman who I had already seen all those times previously then shooed me onwards to the office of the Municipal Police, where I stood outside with another 6 or 7 men, all Indian, Bangladeshi or Pakistani.

After about an hour being chatted up by one of the said men and feeling incredibly exasperated, the door to the office finally opened and what I assume was a policeman exited. I was the second last in line. He exchanged brief words with the other men before setting his eyes on me and heading over to ask me what I needed. I explained in my terrible Italian that I had applied for residency three months earlier but had not heard anything of whether it had been approved or not and was anxious as there was an expiry date for the request. The man took my request document, went back inside the office briefly, then told me to follow him and two other men. Feeling nervous but not wanting to question anything that might hinder my residency being approved, I followed.

We left the Anagrafe building and walked a short way down the street to a small bar. We entered. There were about 4 or 5 people already in the bar and the head policeman ordered four coffees, as I stood nervously picking at my fingernails. Another policeman approached me and started questioning me “Who do you live with?, Do you pay rent?, What is your job?, What is your relationship with your flatmates?”.

Innocently as possible I informed him that I was the girlfriend of my flatmates brother and she was kindly hosting me for free in her apartment, as we were practically family. It was only a slight twist of the truth, I had justifed to myself. Mirella was like my family. He looked at me straight in the eyes for a few seconds and I thought he was about to call my bluff. Then he quickly turned and exchanged some hushed words with the head policeman, who had been busy drinking his coffee and joking with the barman. Even though I didn't drink coffee, I skulled the espresso that had been bought for me, and continued to wait, nerves growing by the second.

Somebody produced another official form, which was filled out in a matter of seconds on the counter of the bar, next to the cornetti. It was signed and backdated by three days. RESIDENCY APPROVED.

Summer Daze

August 17, 2009

Sleep in my eyes. Scooters passing. Silence, briefly. Tortellini pirouettes in his tank, creating undulating waves. Distractions. The click of the apartment building door. Someone exits. Cars horns screech from the street below. It’s hot. Already around 25 degrees and it’s only 9am. It is summer after all. A small Sicilian breeze passes through the window. I can feel the springs through the mattress. My eyes weep for a minute with the sting of morning’s light. I rub my eyes and feel exhausted. 5 hours of broken, humid sleep is not adequate to face the steaming streets of Catania. Decide to avoid of the steaming streets of Catania.

The leaves have turned...

September 26, 2009

The leaves of Castiglione had turned a golden brown and a smoky burnt orange. Autumn was almost over and a deep chill had crept into the ever shortening days. As we descended the narrow, winding road towards the historic centre, I breathed in the view of the surrounding towns and mountains. A farmer with his flock of sheep ushered them down the side of the hill. The church at the entrance to the town stood tall and proud, as always. The car squeezed through the narrow street, almost shaving off its side mirrors. This had become a place of rest for me, a place of peace.

As we prepared dinner that night, strangely a feast of Mexican delights, I sipped a glass of the new season wine and it filled my head with the giddiness of a 14-year-old girl. He told me to try the Provolone cheese that his mother had bought that day. His fingers lightly brushed my lips as he placed the cheese into my mouth. If I could have frozen that moment in time, I would have. It was a perfect moment in life, where all of your senses are hyper alert, welcoming every experience and sensation. Pippo strumming the guitar in the lounge room; the perfume of cumin from the chilli con carne steaming and swirling throughout the kitchen; the feel of the soft, ripe avocado in my hand; and the tingle of the wine upon my tongue.

Most of all I felt his stare. A deep lingering stare that reached inside and settled upon a place in my heart. I shuffled awkwardly through the kitchen and tried to ignore the feeling that had already spilled over and was now rushing through my entire body. The lid of emotion had been lifted.

Learning Curve

October 10, 2009

Things I have learned about Italy in the past month:

1. Italians don't like carpet. They would rather undergo a daily routine of sweeping up never-ending dust bunnies and endure freezing cold feet than install some carpet or a rug in their homes.

2. Italian Post sucks! Apparently the receiver of a parcel sent to Italy has to declare what is inside the parcel (there goes any chance of surprise gifts). On top of this, a doctor must inspect the parcel. What?

3. Italians don't understand the meaning of hurry up. They walk slowly and take up the whole pavement.

4. Italian men interpret a smile as an invitation to harass you.

5. Italian women don't smile.... ever.

6. Italians think foreigners who speak english and very little italian, are stupid.

7. All car horns should be removed from Italian cars. They have lost all meaning.

8. Anytime is Gelato time.

9. Anytime is NOT cappuccino time. Order only it before midday...at the latest.