I admit that there have been times when I thought it wouldn’t be bad to become a saint.  Saint Ross of Rosewood has a certain alliterative ring to it, and Rosewood has no homegrown saint of its own.  In fact the Rosewood of my childhood had very few citizens who might even qualify for sainthood – apart from Cherie Battaglenie and myself. However Celia and Margie’s people over here have put a few impediments in the way of this simple dream of mine.

–   I have to be Roman Catholic……X
–   I must have led a pious life……..X
and then the tough one;
–   They need me to perform at least two verified miracles after I’m dead!

Talk about looking after your own just to prevent outsiders from becoming saints! I will admit, however, they do have some really good stuff over here in Italy to look at and to look after, even if they’re not that inclusive.

Two days ago we visited Lucca and went inside the Church of San Giovanni e Reparata.  What made it very special is that archeologists have excavated to a depth of 20 metres directly under the church and you can walk around that site. At the very bottom are the remains of Roman baths from the 2nd century.  The baths themselves and a piece of mosaic floor are visible. On top of that was built a third century church. Parts of columns remain along with brick foundations.  Again mosaics are visible, a baptismal font, and my absolute favourite – part of a wall with 3rd century graffiti scratched into it. (Nothing rude, just religious stuff. Probably a couple of bored nuns I reckon.)

A second church was built on top of those ruins in the 13th century. The evidence of plagues and internecine warfare is there in abundance by way of the encryptions on graves and crypts. St Catherine Reparata performed her miracle by saving the city from some French invaders after she had been beheaded. Yes Celia she was pious, and yes Margie she was Roman Catholic and yes she was dead, but surely all those soldiers on the walls of the town had just a wee bit to do with the defense of Lucca, don’t you think?

The current 17th century building that gives the San Giovanni to the name of the church was built on top of all the rest. None of the 30ft columns in the church match exactly – some are early Roman, some are 4th century Christian, some were made specially for the St John’s congregation as their new cathedral was being built.  The lads in Rome just sent up a pile of old columns to be recycled and included in the new structure.  Wonderful stuff!

I know Rosewood is not like Lucca. When I was a kid I loved playing under our house in Rosewood. Once I even found an old mower blade, probably a Victa.  (Steve Clark said he found a bullet under his house, but then Steve isn’t ever going to be a saint telling stories like that.) But it doesn’t matter how much you dig, I don’t think you’d find anything under 14 Waight Street half as good as the stuff under the Chiesa San Giovanni e Reparata in Lucca.

I was never given the chance to save Rosewood from an invasion by Catholics from Tallegallah, even with my head attached.  It all makes my deification just about impossible. Thanks Celia and Margie. This means my dream of sainthood has been buried forever by your people in that empty Rosewood dirt. Thanks a lot.

Yours
Regretably now just Ross of Rosewood.

I think that before undertaking a huge graffiti project like this it would have been good to have read just one more book –

One on English grammar perhaps?

Pistoia

Today Linda needed a break from her studies, and I needed to help her with that break, so we went a-wandering.  First choice was Lucca, but today’s trains to Lucca were either VERY slow or non-existent. There was a bus to Lucca, but without the No 56 Bus Ladies Battalion as backup I am still a little wary of Florentine buses.  So after some extensive research and much deliberation we chose Pistoia.  (‘Have you ever heard of a place called Pistoia?’ ‘Numpf’, was my succinct pastry-crumbed reply. ‘Then let’s go there.’) Pistoia it was.

Pistoia is about 30 minutes from Florence by train on the line to Lucca.  Italian trains are great and Florence is centrally located, so day trips like this are easy to do and always enjoyable.  The town is small, almost no tourists and it certainly has enough to do to fill in a day.  Even visiting its churches could fill in a day.

The main cathedral in Pistoia was built by Celia’s and Margie’s people in 1145.  The very old guide, who we paid to show us around, remembers the consecration of that cathedral in 1146 – even though he was just a boy at the time.  The highlight is without doubt a solid silver altar adorned with gold leaf.  It is exquisite and it is stunning – possibly better than the altar in St Bridget’s in Rosewood.

At a time when few people could read Latin (or anything) the artworks of churches were important tools in educating the faithful. At a time when Linda and I can’t speak Italian, an English speaking guide would have been a useful tool in educating these two visitors. Even just  a few English words to convey the occasional idea might have been helpful.  But Roberto?? kept speaking in fast and fluent Italian. Fortunately I did a great job in converting his talk into English.  Our two children would have been very proud of their father’s ability to translate from a completely unfamiliar language, and they would not have been at all embarrassed.

Lunch was one of those meals that can only happen on holidays – just to have all that time to laugh and chat is special. To sit down for two and a half hours on a weekday to a wonderful meal and a good local wine is very special indeed. All the ingredients for this meal came from within 50 kms – the oil, the pasta, the fish, the vegetables, the wine, the proscuitto, the waiter, and the chef.  Sadly Woolworths and Coles have almost destroyed that in Australia.  The need they have for food that can survive the rigours of transport from one part of the continent to another comes at the cost of freshness and flavour.

I’m on a campaign. We need to honour our good local producers.  And we need to honour people like Roberto, who has survived from one millenium to the next – even if he was a really crap and costly tour guide.  Here’s to you Pistoia and to you Roberto –  or whatever your name is.  I didn’t quite get that bit either.

There are some things we will NEVER DO, NEVER BUY.

Even someone from Rosewood has better taste than that. Though the horse and carriage ride around the Duomo did look romantic.  Just Linda’s not that keen on horses.

I went yesterday to an outer suburb in search of a charger for my speakers.  Waiting for the bus home  I chatted to –  where I wrote ‘chatted to’,  read signed, laughed and did charades with – a group of women at the bus stop who were going into Florence city centre to visit their bambini or to do shopping.  Then I stepped onto a bus.

If you have been to Italy you understand two things, the uniforms of officials are impressive and the rules around transport are stupid.  As soon as I stepped on the bus man dressed in a VERY striking uniform came up to me – I thought to sell a ticket, he thought to fine me 50 Euros for not having a ticket.  He wanted my passport – it was in the apartment.  He wanted 50 Euros cash, I didn’t have 50 Euros cash.  I was happy to get off the bus as it hadn’t even left the stop, he wanted to hit someone because he was in a uniform and wasn’t getting what he wanted.  Then the Number 56 Bus Ladies made their move.

The woman who I initially asked for directions started yelling at the conductor, her friends joined in and soon the whole 56th Bus Battalion swung into action.  In the end an old lady gave me one of her tickets and stamped it for me, cursing the official with what were apparently good, ribald Tuscan insults  causing great laughter (what is Italian for ‘big hat, small ????).  Finally the inspector retreated in disgust at the next stop and I got escorted by some feisty, old, laughing women back into the city.

Although I have been considering hiring a push-bike to travel around, what I would really love is to a hire scooter.  It would be much better than walking or catching buses. And I can picture myself riding a scooter through the streets of Firenze.  Sadly Linda can also picture me riding a scooter through the streets of Florence, however the image she gets is vastly different to mine.  It won’t happen. (If I did  hire a scooter I think the legal term is ‘irreconciliable differences’).  So for now it is shank’s pony or the bus.  And as I travel around Florence I can ponder how much different recent European history may have been if Mussolini had enlisted feisty Ladies Bus Battalions instead of relying on his Italian men in those wonderful uniforms.  Makes you wonder.

Ross

The road less travelled

Yesterday Linda and I were having our morning coffee at Cafe Rainer when we engaged in a conversation with Philomena from Melbourne. Philomena has a job lecturing in English at Florence University.  Somehow we ended up working that afternoon with two groups of her students who are doing a course in English Listening.  It was just wonderful.

The students had prepared questions earlier and had been given tasks – What country are our guests from, what are the differences in intonation, pronunciation, emphasis, humour etc etc..,?  Mainly they just wanted to know about kangaroos and dangerous wildlife.  So much for the intended learning outcomes.

Aussie Phil has invited us to afternoon tea with her family and has suggested libraries that Linda can access for her studies, both of which were unexpected.  A group of Italian students know slightly more about the Australian version of the English language as she is spoked.  The same students know a hell of a lot more about kangaroo’s pouches, poisonous snakes and great white sharks.  And we have had one of those travel experiences that you would never get from a tour guide holding up a sign to follow and speaking at you through a megaphone around the Duomo.

Those tours are not for us. Linda and I like the back streets, the ones where locals actually live. We like the constant surprises and the unexpected joys that these places and their locals can provide.  And in a small way, by taking the time to go to the university, I feel that we have given something back to this beautiful city – we have terrified a group of Florentine youngsters with stories of crocodiles and death adders, box jellyfish and Australian baby-killing dingoes. Beats following that guide with the megaphone on the ‘Tastes of Tuscany’  walking tour any day if you ask me.

Life has begun to develop a certain rhythm not usually obtainable in T’ba

Singapore’s Szechwan Chicken
There is a Szechwan dish called “Burning Pot Chicken”.  In Rosewood it would be called “Oh dear, what have I just put in my mouth!!”  The colours and ingredients are wonderful; beautiful pieces of golden chicken, the smoke represented by grey Szechwan peppercorns, whole white garlic cloves and bamboo shoots, and for fire a bucket of the world’s hottest chilli – red being the universal colour to symbolise ‘Quick -get me help -I need first aid’.

I gave it my best shot.  I was going to give up after the first smack to the head – but then I became Mr Stubborn Little Welshman, a man my children so adore.  There was no chilli high.  There was a chilli ‘sorry-Linda,-no-I-can’t stop-my-nose-running’, a chilli ‘ now-my-eyes-have gone-blurry’, a chilli I-know I’m-mumbling-it’s-because-I-can’t-speak’, a chilli ‘great,-now-I’ve-got- the-hiccups’.  But definitely no chilli rush of endorphins to make a Rosewood boy high.  Or even feel good.  Just prolonged and terrifying pain.

The earlier lunchtime meal by contrast was foodie bliss.  Looking for a decent Indian meal we chose to eat at a North Indian restaurant close to our hotel.  I didn’t really understand what the Maitre’d  was saying (perhaps that should be Mahatma d’ ?), but the essence of it was “There’s a special buffet for lunch, we’ll offer you two meals for the price of one if you sit quietly, eat quickly, then get out.”  There were special guests coming.

Singapore’s Minister for Trade and Commerce was being feted by his Indian counterpart.  There was a caste of Indian and Singaporean dignitaries, functionaries, the press corps – and the two of us.  It was a fascinating opportunity to watch how power is exercised; who’s in, who’s out, and who’s so far out they have to sit at the kiddies’ table – not even an introduction to the wigs. Blokes who could have sat with the kitchen staff or the two of us for all they mattered in that company.  The food was sublime – the best Indian we have eaten outside India itself – without doubt. And it was half price.

At least late that evening the wonderful Indian lunch gave me something about which to quietly reminisce.  I still couldn’t speak. I was still suffering through my chilli that-Szechwan-meal-was-hours-ago-and-my-face-STILL-feels-like-it’s-going-to-drop-off, but it balanced by memories of the most wonderful Indian delights. Damn you Burning Pot Chicken. Go back to Hell. Indian curries are the new heavenly high.

The chilli high is a cruel myth.  Any Rosewood boy can tell you that.

(Yes Scotty,  at least one misspelling is intentional not including ‘Mahatma d’, you know I love puns and I know you hate brackets.  Such is life.)

Singapore  29th April

I don’t usually get into Singapore.  I don’t really understand Singapore.  Almost twenty years ago William Gibson famously labeled the Lion City as “Disneyland with the death penalty” and ‘a city that feels like it was designed by the accounts department at IBM.’  Lee Kuan Yew really liked those comments. But then I thought parts of Lee Kuan Yew’s Singapore did have that feel to it – if Orchard Road was a cheese it would be a Kraft Cheddar not a mouldy Italian gorgonzola or a rich French brie, or even an English Stilton.  That shopping precinct would  definitely be Kraft Cheddar; presliced and plastic wrapped.

When Linda and I came here with our children 8 years ago it was still Lee Kuan Yew’s city.  Mitch and I actually met the one democratically elected member of the opposition.  He was pulling a cart around the streets trying to sell books to make a living.  He had been a barrister, but almost as soon as he was elected various government ministers took turns suing him. Always the case was thrown out but eventually he was made bankrupt which disqualified him from sitting in parliament – the democratic way to execute anyone with the temerity to question the dictator.  Apart from drugs and guns of course, j-walking was illegal, long hair prohibited, smoking in a public place was a finable offence, littering could get you arrested and chewing gum was totally banned.

Singapore has changed.  I have seen young people with tattoos and dyed hair.  I have seen evidence of  an Arts culture starting to emerge.  I have seen couples who are obviously and openly gay.  And this year a law was passed allowing Singaporeans to buy chewing gum – for medical reasons only of course. But at least you can now choose your Kraft cheddar in slices that aren’t entirely uniform.

There have always been things about Singapore I have loved since I first came here in 1975.  I love the old Chinatown and Little India districts and the fact that they’re still there and still thriving.  I love eating here, certainly one of my top two food cities in the world.  I love places like La Pa Sat where your green tea is served in glasses that are of different vintages and random sizes.  I love seeing the old men and women who still pray at the family shrine in front of the shop. Singapore does multi-culturalism FAR better than Australia and Australians.  And I think I will enjoy Singapore even more as it becomes less restricted.   Lee Kuan Yew would be horrified at how much his son has let things slip, but me, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing. Now if only they could bake a decent loaf of bread to go with that Kraft cheddar………….

Soon Linda and I will head overseas and will be out of Australia for  66 days and 13 hours (approximately). Linda intends to write the first draft of her doctoral thesis.  I intend to get really, really fat.

The first four weeks will be spent in Florence where Linda will begin her writing and I will begin excessive and obsessive food consumption.  Most of you know that we are quite familiar with Firenze and have been there a number of times, most recently in January this year.  For us the holiday starts as soon as we arrive at Santa Maria Novella railway station (the main railway station in Florence). Here we can immediately experience the traditional Florentine specialties – good espresso coffee, sweet pastry and Italian mayhem.  Can’t wait.

Check out the itinerary for our trip on the link below:

https://www.tripit.com/trip/public/id/135BCB1C5C23