the italian job

My new boss dropped my laundry off at my hostel this morning. She apologised that one of the shirts was still damp--it hadn't washed clean the first time 'round, so she went ahead and washed it again. My underwear was folded and the socks were paired. I was still a bit groggy from being out with her husband and another teacher the night before. They only go to excellent restaurants, and two bottles of wine are considered reasonable with dinner. Nobody ever produces any cash--they just have running tabs with all these places. Kathryn's out of the office today, so I thought I might buy my own lunch, but she thoughtfully left 30€ under a paperweight for me.

I'm in a town called Reggio Emilia. It's near Parma: the graffiti on my bunkbed says 'let's grate the Parmesans' and underneath, in a different hand, 'Reggio Emilians are hairy oafs'. A more realistic demonstration of the campanilismo concept, I suppose. I had an interview here a couple of weeks ago, but I wasn't sure about the place. I called the director to turn down the job, and she asked me to come back and see the town again before I made my decision. I've been here since then. Kathryn's setting up a new school. She has a resources cupboard that would make an ESL teacher weep. Any time you want a new book (or CD-Rom or DVD or laminator or whatever) she buys it. Reggio seems like a moneyed town, and she's providing a very good, pricey service to people who can afford it. She's committed to making everything absolutely perfect. I balked at the nine-month teaching contract after all, so she's got me doing contract stuff--producing lesson plans and handbooks and stuff. So far it doesn't feel like work, which is excellent. Excuse the reportage but, unfortunately for the cause of literature, there is actually stuff to report at the moment.

I have a bike and everything, so I guess I'll be here for a little while. Bikes are great. I haven't ridden one since I was in Japan ten years ago. I was terrible at it then, and I'm marginally worse now, but I still feel like a kid in a Spielberg film, rattling along the cobblestones with that satisfying sense of speed. I keep waiting for it to turn Fassbinder as I hit a rock on the pavement and veer out in front of a maniac Italian driver (score one for the clichés).

So. Reggio. I saw a lady cop yesterday. She looked like she'd been recruited from Central Casting and styled by Jean-Paul Gaultier. Her gun holster matched her jaunty white cap. Yes, she did have mirrored aviators on.

I saw a man yelling into his mobile phone while he was parked in a service station. Ten minutes later a woman pulled up alongside him, and stared at him meaningfully through the window. He glared straight ahead, all sulky, until she sped away in rage. Still later, though, she turned up on foot and calmly got into his car. That's amore.

At the train stations, they don't announce which platform the train will be on until a minute before it arrives. So all the people in the station congregate in front of the announcements board, all eyes expectantly raised, like citizens waiting to hear Ceasar's latest speech at the forum. When the platform is announced, the room clears. All of those people, lugging bags, kids and bikes, have to squeeze themselves at high speed through the underpass and emerge on the platform just as the train is pulling in. It adds a certain frisson to the whole train-catching experience.

The only person I know in Reggio of my own age is another teacher from the school. I call him Belligerent B. He's a literature grad from Torquay. He's very professional and the kids adore him--he spent the better part of a day colouring-in and laminating a frieze of The owl and the pussycat for the kids' classroom--but he nevertheless has The Rage. 'This country drives me fucking nuts, thank Christ. I mean, you've got to have something to fight against, don't you? Well I do, anyway. I'm English. Put me on a tropical island with beautiful girls and coconut cocktails and I'd be slitting my wrists within seconds. Yeah. I'm thinking of going down south next year, Sicily or something. It'll give me a whole new set of things to hate.' There's a story there, but there are stories I'll steal and stories I won't. Even a blogging hack has some standards.