Arts and Follies, Consumerism and Street Smart Kids: too much for just one day

In the end I didn't manage to go to the AA meeting. The shutters of the office were almost wrecked and inside neglet and dust reigned. My friend and I gave up disappointedly the idea of exploring the issues and lives of wretched alcoholics and drug addicts and decided to go somewhere else. This City has more to offer than pollution and ready-made food courts.

First stop: Oxford Street. From there we rambled towards Carnaby Street: an alley for fashion junkies and design addicts. The shops had familiar names, international brands and colourful shopwindows. An amazing store sold hats of all sorts and fashions: from classic black and white NY branded baseball cap to green and grey tartan berets. I felt like Alice in Wonderland once again. Consumerism and the universe of choice. Shelves that were literally vomiting goods overhung me. And then we had a sushi meal in a lovely shop that sold all kinds of whole food: cheesecakes, cereals, cookies, juices, chocolate bars, jams, bread and more.

Next stop: we randomly arrived in Trocadero and saw a massive billboard: "Ripley's Museum: Believe it or Not". What's that? We crossed the street and checked it out. The gift shop was any kid's bonanza: an endless choice of sweets -coke jujubes, liquorice wheels, chocolate-coated nuts, lollipops-, pointless goodies and books of long-fogotten memorabilia. The bright colours gave me a thrill of excitement and I felt like a child again. A wonderful feeling. But there's a price to happiness. We bought two tickets for the museum -f***ing expensive!- and crossed our fingers hoping for the best.

After queuing and wondering how much time of our lives we waste queuing (at the bank, at the post office, in the tube, in the museum and so on), we entered. First impression: not worth it. But as we moved forward we realised that the museum had some interesting things to offer. Human's fascination for the wacky, the weird, the bizzarre has some intriguing allure in its obsessiveness. Why are we so attracted to the eccentric, to the extravagant, to the unexplicable? Is it just a healthy anthropological curiosity of others' cultures and skills? Is it a self-reassuring means of looking at our own lives? Is it a self-comforting tool to appreciate our relative "normality", "sanity" better? Do we need the extreme to enjoy the common?

Whatever the reason, there were loads of peculiar stuff in this strange collection. A loads of stimula and topics to talk about with my fellow adventurer. Agoraphobic artist Enrique Ramos made the best of the time he spent barricaded home by meticulously crafting paintings out of the bodies of dead butterflies or pieces of stamps from all over the world. J.F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe proved excellent models for his imaginary world of self-imposed conviction. His extraordinary creativity topped by a sprinckle of folly went so far that he reproduced Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper on a grain of rice. His miniatures of the Royal Family were stunning.


In this temple of freaks we could see humankind's recklessness at its utmost: screenings of people without limbs, crazy stuntmen that could carry a rickshaw attached to their eyelids, dying carpenters that carved their own testament wood statue and stuck on it their own hair, fingernails and brows. It makes you shiver and consider how hard it is to make a sense out of our lives. Among the size-freaks -the tallest and the fattest men ever alive- I had the chance to take part in this wondrous fair and became a freak myself. A two-way mirror tricked me as I played games with my tongue (wonder of wonders, I can double fold it, flower fold it and make it forked like a snake)...to the amusement of the visitors on the other side.

A light-blue wax head of a Chinese reminded me of Lupin from1980's movie Big Trouble in Little China, the model of a Wolf Man reminded me of Fur, the film based on photographer Diane Arbus's life. All my childhood's paranoid thoughts suddenly bubbled up: the clown from IT, the Oompa-Lumpas from 1971's Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and, as I wandered in the Mirror Maze, the villain from The Wizard of Oz that removed and changed head on her whim. This labyrinth of memorabilia might be as well a House of Horrors in a theme park. The line that separates the marvellous from the dreadful is extremely thin.

The museum revealed also an anthropology section. I marvelled at a penis sheath from somewhere exotic and even more at the shrunken skulls from the Amazon. I felt uneasiness at the sight of girls pulling down the level of a fake electric chair and laughing hard at the painful cries of the the condemned dummy. They took photos and repeated the scene more than once. An eerie scene, indeed. This deadly tool invented by a wicked dentist was used only in the US and in Indonesia. The girls probably didn't grasp the reality lying behind. I sighed at the thought that the death penalty was abolished back in 1889 in Italy. Is this civilization?




The best part of the museum was the very last attraction: a passage through a blue rolling tube crammed with iridescent yellow and pink dots. The score reveals the character of the experience: Born Slippy by the Underworld from the film Trainspotting. You are walking straight but the tube around you spins so fast that you feel dizzy, stumble, lean on the handrail. You feel like a junkie and it's just a psychological reaction. For the weak ones, a chicken run is also available.

After the museum we went back to Oxford Street. The crowd of buyers that, hands on their pockets, fill every single shop make me wonder and brood over the meaning of life: what's the point in working all week to spend the saturday in stores to give away the money? Stuff, stuff, stuff. I see cash and punds and credit cards and bank withdrawals all around. And grumpy people. Spellbound people. People in chains. Educated, smart people that run around in circle and are fettered to capitalism. Are they happy? I doubt it. They have it all and don't have nothing.

My date was a Nigerian-born Englishman that never saw a shooting star. Is there such a thing? On a lucky day in summertime a couple of years ago I went on the mountains and saw 43 shooting stars in a row. He never saw one in his whole life. 43 free wishes to express in one night. Here in London, wishes are coins cast in tiny fountains or thrown in a sham blackhole.

We went in a massive sportswear store, the cathedral of capitalism. Consuming consuming consuming. My friend's thinking is all about making money. Figures, business, profit. The mindset in this country is very enterpreneurial. Which is great. People are prompted to think with their own brains, to take risks to set up a company. And who fails falls out of the game. It's no wonder that Charles Darwin, father of the evolutionary theory, was English. You play the game, you gamble. If you're fit you survive. Otherwise you die. Such a theory could have never been conceived in a Catholic country. I reckon my Catholic frame of mind despite my lack of faith in God. Charity to us (Italians) has a totally different meaning than here. Charity comes along with humility and sharing. And despite the grandeur of the Vatican, everyday people are really out there to help and be close to others. In Britain charity means fund raising, expensive dinners and celebrities' sponsorship. Max Weber's theory that capitalism and protestantism are intertwined is dawning on me as clear as it has never been before.

Walking back home at around 9pm we met some kids. They looked 8 to me. I wanted to investigate. My friend suggested that he should go. He asked them about their age. They were 11, four of them. Eating crisps, cycling, hanging around. They asked him why he was asking. He made up some excuses. They were flippant, defiant. They smelt the bullshit and didn't want to be fooled. They said something about their favourite football team. I gaped at them. Street smart kids. Too young to be so angry, so aggressive, though. I felt much more innocent than them, much more naive, and I am twice as old. What kind of childhood are they living? What are their aspirations? What can they expect out of their lives? Who takes care of them? Being here makes me fancy about becoming a teacher. My caring side emerges every now and then. There are too many brats these days.

The Imaginarium and the Storytelling

There were a couple of details that could have put me off in Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, from the wise midget to the whole circus-like setting. (Honestly, who hasn't a creepy feeling when it comes to circus, clowns, freaks?). But, if I were a film critic I would never start my review with a "Terry Glliam creates a universe of fantasy and weirdness in his latest visionary The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus". It would be way too dull and trite.

On the contrary, I found the film rather political and social focused. Subtle criticism is interspersed within the plot and intertwines beautifully with the magical world of its main characters. The story is a bit pretentious, but Gilliam has a vibrant and engaging way of telling it. Mmm...I wonder if engaging is the appropriate expression since a couple of people abandoned the screening halfway through (incidentally, I've been twice to the movies so far and both times some people left in the middle of the show. I wonder why that happens. In Italy, and a French friend confirmed it also for her home country, that would never happen. Or it would rarely happen. My hypothesis is that Londoners are so busy that if a film isn't good enough they wouldn't waste their precious time watching it).

Going back to The Imaginarium... I found it rather critical of England. The time setting is supposed to be contemporary, but the world of the travelling theatre seems to belong to a long-forgotten past. The past of thousand-year-old Doctor Parnassus. The presence of Tony is never well-explained, as well as each character's story. Where does the midget come from?
But that's not the point of the story. It's not about explaining. It's all about suggesting, it's all about hinting. Suggesting an imaginary world of desires and dreaming that leads straightaway to death. The only way to escape it is a fatal deal with the devil. And here comes the criticism: the devil has red hair. Interesting choice of dye. Everyone who knows me a bit knows that I don't like red-haired guys (I mean, aesthetically). And being ginger is a very common feature among Englishmen. The main female character, Valentina a.k.a. Lily Cole, also has red hair. Her beauty, gentleness and naughtiness (her father calls her scrappy) at the same time, level out the discrepancy with her malicious male counterparts.

Greed is also pilloried sharply in the film. The paradise of shoes in which the fancy old lady revels, the spiteful promise that Doctor Parnassus seals with the devil are all part of this criticism. But most strikingly the director tears to pieces the whole charity propaganda, showing its fake, hypocrisy and abysmal brutality. Corruption exploiting children's sufferings is portrayed in a rather grotesque way, which reminded me of some Otto Dix's paintings. Lopsided perspectives and unnaturally bright colours add Gilliam's style to the oddities of the movie.

The film is imbued with metaphors. Some of them refer to a long-established tradition: the devil as a smarmy snake, Charon the ferryman who accompanies the souls in the hereafter, the sound of clarinets to underline the lovers' first encounter in the very opera's fashion. Other Italian references are Tony's a.k.a. Heath Ledger's costume that resembles Punch's, the Neapolitan character of XXVI century Commedia dell'Arte, and Valentina's representation as a modern version of the Venus of Botticelli. Other symbols are more intriguing and more theme-related. The ever fascinating metaphor of the travelling theatre as life experience juxtaposed to settling down and the linked device of the mirror as tool to search inside one's soul. Both elements were typical of the baroque. And then the tarots, the steep mountain, the police that defeat Russian mafia by showing their arses... The blatant farce is depicted in splendid grandeur and accuracy.

As well as mesmerizing the audience's eye, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus sows here and there pearls of wisdom that are worth noting down. Tony's dirty plans were revealed by an inquiry that was cover story on The Sun. When questioned by Valentina's true-blue friend Anton he replies: "Don't always believe what you read in the newspaper, especially The Mirror" (pun intended?). Quite a barb, ain't it? Especially when you consider that soon later Percy, the dwarf assistant of the company, suggests his master that telling the truth is always a bad idea.

But the most powerful of lines is a catchy phrase uttered by Doctor Parnassus himself addressing the devil: "You can't stop stories from being told".

The past few days have been all about storytelling. Yesterday's International news class had Jeff Nathenson, partner manager at Google and YouTube, as guest speaker. Beside his precious advices on how we should exploit technology at its utmost possibility, he told us that in the end it's all about storytelling. The way a reporter, a journalist, a freelance brands him/herself depends on how he/she tells the story. And he invited us to find our own way to do that. Next guest was Salim Amin, CEO at A24media.com, the independent African 24 hours news channel. He showed us an incredible and moving documentary about the journey he took to trace back his father's footsteps. Bits of footage of Mohammed Amin's report of the famine in Ethiopia in 1984 mingled with contemporary footage of the same country and the very same places where the human catastrophe took place.

Amin's photoreporting was inspiring. He was able to make a difference and raise awareness an money to help people. It was also disturbing and heavy to bear. The words of a commentator towards the end of the bit we watched struck me like darts. MohammedAmin's footage was so deep, so powerful that compelled the viewer to struggle against his conscience, to have a thorough a look inside one's life and reconsider one's priorities. I don't know if I will ever be able to experience something like that. Being a foreign reporter means being ruthless. How can you face famine, suffering and death and then go away? I wondered: how can we be so shallow to care about technology and fashion when people in the world are starving?

And again today. Shirin Neshat, Iranian artist and filmmaker, said at a panel debate at the London Film Festival that in the end it's all about storytelling. Writing and directing a movie is storytelling.

I could easily define myself a storyteller. Being a storyteller sounds much better than being a journalist.


Quick note: Never make a deal with the devil. It's never a good idea. See The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and Dorian Gray for confirmation. Immortality is something we shouldn't aspire to.
Quick note 2: It was disquieting seeing Heath Ledger's first appearance in the film as the hanged man.
Quick note 3: The 16-year-old sort of curse reminded me of my favourite Disney heroine: Aurora, a.k.a. The Sleeping Beauty. Sweet 16...a dangerous turning point for a girl, apparently.

On caring

Once I was in the car with my mom -she was driving me to the train station to go to Verona- and she questioned me why I was so eager to go away, to travel around the world if the people are all the same everywhere. She was wrong, but she had a point.She was wrong because people are very different, culturally speaking. But she had the point because I was not even considering the option that I might face an overwhelming cultural clash and find some really hideous people.

Sometimes I loathe it in here. I feel oppressed and exhausted. Everything is apparently free and friendly, whereas it's just stressful and careless. People in London are so active. They read the book in the Tube, which is great. I mean, we complain that people in Italy people don't read enough, but does it mean they actually enjoy the book? Reading chapters by bits and patches during the 20-minute journey to the office... It's like the idea of having a prèt-à-manger lunch: ready made, grab and bite. It's not only lunch, it's the whole culture of speed. There's no actual time to do things not in a hurry, but in a relaxed, laid-back way.

People on the tube read the newspaper. Most of the time it's the (despised?) churnalism offered by free press pulp "Metro". Londoners are informed, they know what's going on around the world (with also the sort of self-entitled right and authority to criticize other countries' policies instead of looking thoroughly at their own yard!). But anyway, they know. I wonder: do they actually care? What's the point of being informed if they don't care?

Lindsey Hilsum, reporter for Channel 4 News, was guest at our international news lecture last week. She showed us a report on the drought in Kenya which is plaguing vast areas of the country. In the very first part of the report she put some footage of a dead elephant calf because she explained that such images would draw an Englishman's attention. British people are apparently concerned about cubs' health. I shivered.

Living in a big city makes you lose the perspective of the average human being. You lose the perception of "normality". Or paradoxically anything becomes "normal". You lose the ability of feeling stupor, marvel, curiosity, surprise, disgust, bewilderment. Evrything becomes routine: from the most obnoxious to the most splendid of things. All the extremes stretches in a line and everything morphes on the surface of that. Contradictions are no more reason for questioning, contrasts are taken as ordinary states of facts.

Coming from the countryside I still haven't lost my touch with the average human being, the contact with the very essence of being human. Otherwise I'll have to come to terms with the fact that I might come from another planet altogether (and I may be very willing to go back to my happy small universe at the end of this astonishing experience).

I still consider unjust and repellent the contrast between homeless people sleeping next to the Tube vent and the rich powerful businessmen and women that own expensive cars and villas in Southern France. The sight of a 10-year-old hoodie lighting up a cigarette while walking on the pavement alone still puzzles me and fills me with sad contempt. I still cannot understand the culture of unheathly food and binge daily drinking after work. I still cannot get how having a couple of drinks or assuming drugs while breast-feeding is even a contemplated possibility for a mother. What I assumed to be a natural motherly instinct -protecting your own child- can be a self-denial sacrifice that not all mothers are willing to make.

On Racism, Anti-social Behaviour, Kids & Missing parents

Today I have a lot of topics to talk about. But to avoid mess, I'll narrow it down to just a couple and save the rest for some other time. I've just finished to watch a report on how widespread racism is in Southmead, Bristol (on BBC's investigative programme Panorama). A British reporter of Bangladeshi descent, born and raised in Manchester, temporarily moved to Southmead to investigate undercover how much racism is still frequent in some Britain's towns.

It is worth noticing, first and foremost, how much controversial the issue of racism is. Britain has been a country of immigration for several decades now. But in some cities its inhabitants haven't accepted this reality, yet. Tamanna Rahman, the reporter, is a British citizen just as much as a white British citizen is. However, she experienced verbal and physical abuse during her stay in Southmead. She recalled it as a painful experience.

The thing that struck me the most, though, was the age of people that abused her. Most of them were kids, aging from 11 to 19. One of the muggers was just 11. And his defiant behaviour was outrageously disquieting to my eyes. I couldn't imagine an 11-year-old act like that back home. I can be wrong, of course.

He pretended he had a gun or a knife and his words were full of rage, hatred and violence. He pretended to be a gangster and approached the woman in the most disrespectful way ever. He attempted to steal her purse and threatened her to cut her throat. I wondered: Where does all this come from? All this hatred, all this void inside? Is it normal that kids just hang around in the streets by themselves and then harass women the age of their mothers, potentially? Isn't there a culture of respect for elderly people? Isn't there a culture of respect for people in general? Who taught them that the colour of the skin make us different and can put us on a scale of value? What does a kid of 11 years know about racism? Does it come natural?

My impression, again, is that kids are a little forsaken in this country. Parents don't really care. (All they care is their career and their self-improvement, possibly - I'm assuming, as a first glance). My impression is anyway backed up by another hint that took me aback last week.

On the morning news, the anchorwoman was discussing the issue of the so-called cot death with a doctor. He was pointing out that the risk of cot death is higher when kids sleep with their mothers and the mothers happen to be tired and might fall asleep while breast-feeding, "especially if they had a couple of drinks". He said it carelessly, like an incidental remark. I was horrified. Breast-feeding and having a couple of drinks??? The two things do not come hand in hand in my mind, and I considered it an appalling and dangerous suggestion to make by a doctor!

I'm not a mother, but my sister recently gave birth to the sweetest nugget of a baby you can imagine, but anyway... She has never had a drink, not even a sip of a drink, since she became aware of being pregnant. She was self-disciplined, but she didn't miss alcohol for a sec. She has never been too much of a drinker, to be honest, but the mere thought of causing any damage to the health of her son was much more poignant than the dizzy feeling of being tipsy. And it came natural to her. Her first thought was: "my son's health and safety".

And it's all the more puzzling if you consider the fact that this country seems to be obsessed with health and safety procedures. I've had a couple of classes so far that dealt with this issue. Health and safety procedures on how to enter the university building on the weekends, health and safety procedures that a journalist should consider before embarking on any assignment, even a pop gig where only 12-year-olds are expected to attend! A country that is paranoid about risk assessing fails to be risk-proof on the most basic and elemental of all relationships: mother and child.

I may have gone astray, but I believe all these issues are related to one another. Kids' anti-social behaviour and racist violent approach are to be linked to the very absence of parental presence, of parental care. Because, excuse me, but if a mother cannot give up a drink over her own offspring, what can we expect?

On Hypocrisy, Friendship and Family

Today's post will be a merciless blurting out of feelings and impressions that I gathered in my first month here in London. I still have mixed feelings about my being here. The cultural shock is still vibrating and pulsing within me. But I'm finally shaping a rather pitiless idea of the Brits.

First of all, I'm utterly appalled by the hypocrisy oozing out of the English people. I have never seen as many charities and NGOs in my entire life as I've seen here in almost five weeks of stay. British people think so much of themselves because they struggle to save the rain forest, fight to promote environmental friendly solution to avoid climate change, or raise funds to help children in Third World countries. And then they spend fortunes in High Street shops, dinners out in fancy restaurants, bullshit and rubbish useless stuff. Just think of the amount of paper wasted in the up-and-coming free press, that very few people even have time to read these days: it's disgusting. Greenpeace supporters demonstrated their will to change the world by climbing up the House of Parliament last Sunday evening. So much raising awareness of lack of security in the area, despite the countless CCTV, rather then really striking the point of climate change. How hypocritical is that? What did they hope to achieve by climbing up the building?

This morning, I was talking on the phone with a guy I met Friday night. His background is African and Caribbean, but was born and raised in the UK. When I raised the point of NGOs he started an infuriated sermon on how hypocritical these associations are and how, in his opinion, they are just shadow offices of the government. My view is much more practical and concrete: these associations need funding in order to function. Is the effort of raising funding efficient to promote actual differences in the real world or are they just self-maintaining island achieving nothing but survival of their own financial balances? Do they make any difference in others' lives? Do they reach their goals or are they just façade bureaus to cleanse rich people's consciences?

I was also brooding over this year's selection of students attending my course, or should I say lack of selection? We are more than 100. I expected at least 20 people less. Is it true that we are talented, brilliant students, aspiring or already working journalists who deserve to be in the programme? Or was it just another way for City University to fill its weeping coffers in a time of economic crisis (for the record my Master costs Home and EU students £7,495 and overseas students £12,995. You do the maths)? Something like, "let's exploit Britain's fame for good high education and beguile young people with the glittering bait that we can improve their careers in one year's time!" 'Cause let's be honest about it. I don't feel like I deserve to be in this programme. There are students far more talented and goal-oriented than I am. Students that are already familiar with the English-speaking media world, that master the language because it's their mothertongue as well. I wonder how many chances I have with such competition, both in this country and in my own.
I must admit I am quite disappointed with the lack of intercultural approach in a course that is advertised as "specifically designed for students coming from all over the world" but and then leaves its students to figure out the cultural shock for themselves with few guidelines and a pale beacon. I suspect that income in British coffers is much more appreciated than honest confrontation with other cultures. It is questionable whether Canadians and Irish people feel a cultural clash at all and in what proportion if compared, for instance, to Italians. And I had the chance to sample the mood among my country fellows: not quite enthusiastic. And one thing is facing challenges, taking risks, which can be elating. Another thing is facing the truth: is this effort going to take me anywhere real? What's the price I'm paying? What am I missing for being here? Will there be a reward or am I doing it for sake of it?

So, there goes my bitter consideration of selecting policies this year at City University. What's the link with the hypocrisy, you may be wondering? Well, it's all intertwined I believe. And I'll point it out as good as I can through a metaphor.
I was taking a shower this afternoon. I was scratching my face. A layer of grey filth got stuck under my fingernails. I scratched my face again and another layer came off and then another and another and another... People here are like this. They have layers of dirt on their faces and live happily like this. They never show their real selves. They pretend they're good and care about other people but at the end of the day it's all about themselves. It's all about the self! I have never seen such a self-centred society as the English one. Or the one in London -I will play the local card not to be unfair and generalize a situation that may be different elsewhere. Coming from a small town where not everything revolves around money this was quite a sharp reality check. I go around the city and all I see is egotism. All around. There must be a reason why the first author of self-help books, Samuel Smiles, was British -Scottish for the sake of accuracy.

And at the same time I noticed that here, in order to be part of society, you have to be member of something. Also the University lifestyle: there are clubs, societies and groups of all types. Pay and become a member. This culture of membership is quite unclear to me. One of my tutor said that it must be related to the lack of confidence of people. When you say you're a spokesperson of something you feel backed up. I suspect it has to deal with the lack of true human contact, of honest human relationship.


I've never thought I would miss my family and my friends so much. But since I'm here I've been fighting against bubbling tears more often than not. And I was quite a loner back home. I miss my growing nephew more than anything else. I miss my family, my warm lovely supporting nest. I miss my friends and the chats in front of a spritz. I miss my quiet life. I've already had enough of the hustle-and-bustle. It's meaningless, it's self-entitled, it's self-centred, it's blind. It's LONELY. More than anything. It's lonely and exposed.

British culture is great. I've met people whose knowledge is way beyond exceptional. I've had brilliant conversations with strangers met in the streets. I've talked to smart students whose idea on what life should be about is clear and they're looking straightforward at it. I admire them. But I miss something. And they miss something too. And that's the feeling of an embrace, of consuming friendships, of hard-gained sisterhood, of parental responsibility. The cult of the family is really an Italian speciality, but it's something I won't give up for anything else in the world. Not even for a brilliant career in journalism. What is the point of that if you have nobody to share your achievements with? In a world of wired connections and virtual webs, of 24 hours news and never-sleeping cities, we are as lonely as we've never been. Small islands on an island. I yearn for the small missing detail, for the smile upon a loved one's face that make your day, for the laughter of a child who came out of your sister's womb and you saw from the very first day he entered life.

I've been questioning my presence here every single day. I'm asking myself every single day if I'm happy. I forsook my caring family and friendships to be here. I might not end up as a reporter after all. I'm most probably not meant to be a journalist. So I'm taking this year as a self-discovery voyage, as a wondrous trip in my own self, in my own conscience. I'll try to make the best of it, regardless of the Master's results. After all, it's just a degree, it's not me, it's not who I am, it's not where I come from and now I've realized it's not where I'm headed.
This idea that what you do is what you are is so rooted here that I cannot help but find it odd, addictive, dangerous. It's like the mantra "Become a news junkie!" I don't want to be a junkie, full stop. Any type of junkie. That's unhealthy. And I value health greatly. When a job summons up all a person's worth I think very poorly of the person. And I don't want to think poorly of myself.
I want to be a valuable person. Even if just for one person in this big huge messy world, I want to be indispensable for someone. I want someone to remember me for who I am. I want someone to be grateful to have met me because I have been meaningful in their life. And that doesn't come by becoming a fucking news junkie. That takes long-time effort, endurance, passion, patience. Like my element, like water...a slow-working force that shapes rocks (...and takes away the dirt on your face!)

Brits are freaks - Continuing Education

These Brits are freaks. I am more and more convinced of this, although they have a certain amount of positive qualities too. Such as...continuing education, the will and the perseverance to educate themselves and keep developing throughout all their lives.

I was at a conference today. Two researchers dealt with multiculturalism-related issues. The average age of the participants in what became a very interesting debate was rather high. I would quantify it roughly as 50/55. (I might be wrong, but in that case people looked much older than they actually were). Anyway, I was by far the youngest in the room.

Over the coffee break I got to talk to this old lady who was sitting right next to me. She used to work as an English teacher to foreigner students (and still does privately) and is currently a secretary for the United Nation Association UK. We talked about esperanto, language, diversity. Her knowledge struck me. As a teacher she is supposed to be well-educated of course. But still.

The point I wanted to malke in this point, however, and I'll come to that right now before going astray, is that British people have the guts to put themselves at stake, to challenge themselves even if they are old and could be happily retired idles. I thought of my grandmother when I saw this woman. She was scribbling on her notepad with the same accuracy and quickness as a XXIII century amanuensis would. My granny goes grocery shopping every single day with my grandpa, makes daily stops at her children's houses and goes back home to cook supper or watch TV. It's a very simple life. Stress-free if you want. No challenges, no efforts.

I wonder if this continuous research of being helpful, of serving the community, of making extra money is just the surface of a problem that lies way underneath, and it has to deal with the lack of solid relationships, the lack of sense that people struggle to find in being active, in doing something, in improving. I admire, to be honest, these people. It's not easy putting yourself out there these days. They are brave enough to do so, and it proves to be rather successful. But at the same time I wonder how serious they go.

What is the price for this relentless need of wanting to know and do more? Or, more plainly, what is the point in struggling to know more and do more when you are physically and mentally old? What do you do that for? Why taking the risk (especially in a society where health and safety issues are stressed in such a powerful way!)?

I see where I come from, but I don't quite see where I'm going. The thing I know is that my parents, my relatives, all the people that inhabited the environment in which I grew up (with few exceptions) settled down at a certain point. And got stuck there. Mobility is a whole new concept for me. The idea of moving on. "People move on". People improve. People study, even if they're adults. Where I come from this has never happened. Security, balance, stability were far more preferable than the challanges of improving, of being at stake, of gambling -if you want to put it that way. And you form a sound, close-knit family -which is your -my- boundary, as well as my most precious strength, and it lasts for a lifetime (hence, worth valueing it).

I rambled. But I think I've made my point clear. Continuing education and self-improvement: values per se or issues that hide inner insecurities and lack of self-esteem, self-acceptance, emotional "bliss"?

Brits are freaks - Politeness

After such a bitter review of English manners in my previous post, today I should counterbalance my opinion and recognize that Brits do have good manners in most occasions, indeed.

This is something I noticed from my very first week here in London. From my very first experience in a shop on the Queen's soil (hope nodoby will get angry at me for this expression!), which took place at Stansted airport precisely one month ago. All shop assistants welcome you at the cashier with a smile upon their face and say soft-spokenly: "Hello, thank you for waiting."

The bank clerk that assisted me while struggling to open an account welcomed me with the same spiel and kept smiling jolly at me all the time, even though I was most annoying asking her to repeat every single detail over and over again. For the record, I would have probably done the same in Italy, 'cause my financial skills are nearly non-existing.

It happened tonight at the supermarket and at the bookshop. You may think these assistants are quite hyprocritical. It's humanly impossible to be cheerful at the end of the day, after you've spent eight or more hours working. And it's quite useless too, as a formula. What does it mean in the end? What else can the customer do other than waiting? However, it's joyful for the customer to be welcomed in such a polite way. Sometimes a well-mannered encounter can make your day, or simply cast a smile on your face and you exit the store a little bit more light-hearted.
So, thumbs up for the training in politeness that shop assistants and office workers go through! And even big toes up for the strain of doing so at whatever time of the day!

I remember with glee the mild-mannered civil servant that helped me when I was trying to figure out how the Oyster card (card that charges low-priced fees for public transport) works. He carefully explained to me all the different options and since I was still doubtful, he started all over again. He also used a Forrest Gump-like metaphor involving chocolates and sweets to point out that there is no best solution but only relatively good ones. As I felt grateful for his helpfulness and compelled to tell him so, he then added: "No, it's a pleasure to be helpful when someone is nice. Sometimes people come here and are in such a hurry, and grumpy, that it makes you feel like you don't to be kind either!" And that reminded me that all relations, even the more ephemeral ones, are two-sided and mutually established.

Customer service is a part of British culture that I admire. It makes you feel important even if you're not. And it must be hard, as the dear TFL clerk suggested, when everyboy's at speed and has very little time to be polite. It must come natural after a while.

In Italy such thing does not exist, and I'm afraid to become aware of the fact that our fame precedes us. I was recently talking to a guy from London who took a Master's degree in Scandinavian studies. He heard, or rather knew, about Italian postal service. These days, Brits are having problem with lazy Royal Mail postmen as well, but I think Italian postal service scores first in any public service list in terms of inefficiency, slowness and grumpiness. I reckon that it must take strenuous effort to bare the grievances of retired people who regularly go to the post office to collect their poor pensions or to put up with the bothering bloke that shows up at the very last minute to hand in a letter to send by recorded delivery.

Nevertheless, it would take just a little more patience and endurance to say the few magic words that might turn the grumpy old folk and the angry busy businessperson that has no time to waste into friendly chaps: "Thank you for waiting."

Take it as it is: false, rehearsed, robotically repeated with no sensitivity attached. It's still better to find a fake happy smile than a sincere gloomy countanance, isn't it? And to be honest, this politeness helped me cope with the puzzling settling down in the City as I arrived. When you feel lost in a big city it's pretty comforting to know that somebody out there, despite the daily mayhem of life, is willing to help you.

Brits are freaks - Greetings

I've been living in London for one month now. Maybe I should start to commit myself to something. So I decided to commit myself to daily blogging. That's a demanding commitment, but I'll do my very best to meet it. I've gathered quite a lot of stories in the past four weeks, but I'll try to focus on the now, since I'm supposed to be a journalist. I have a couple of stories up my sleeves, but I'll keep them for when my imagination runs dry.

So, where shall I start? Let's start with the obvious: greetings. How do people greet each other? Basic social skill, you learn it once your career as socialite begins, when you're around 2 or 3. But, once you cross the border, once you cross the Channel you have to rearrange your manners.

I was recently at the house-warming party of our neighbours. I barely even know one of the tenants, but we're neighbours, it's Saturday night, we're supposed to be kind to each other -you never know, when you run out of sugar you can knock on their door. So, I hardly know the tenant, but it's fine. Nobody knows anyone anyway. We're just a bunch of strangers, friends of friends, previous roommates, uni mates having casual conversations while sipping alcohol.

The night unfolds smoothly. When tired, my housemate and I leave. Alright. Easilier said than done. The guy I am talking to gets a little unnerved by my bad manners and asks me: "So, like... Are you just going to sneak out of the house like that without even saying bye?"
And quite frankly and openly I question him about English manners: "What do you guys do to say bye?" 'Cause usually the 'Hi' is shaking hands, and that's pretty universal. We managed to find an almost international agreement on that. But the possibilities with the 'Bye' are spreading.

I incidentally mention that in Italy we usually kiss each other. And what do I get? One of our nice neighbour, the very typical English bloke with braces, ginger hair and blooming spots on his face, gives me the most appalling look ever. I then point out that we generally give little pecks on the cheeks, or we rather pretend to give little pecks; it's more like just leaning close to each other's face. But no. He is disgusted. And with the appalled look still glued on his face he tells me: "No, no. A hug is enough with us."

Hence, I hug everybody and go home wondering: how come these Brits are so cold in their greeting manners -'cause a hug is the chilliest possible way to greet somebody, it's almost like you want to stab the other in the back- and seem bewildered by our warmer contact, when they welcome complete strangers in their homes and unashamedly get drunk, make a fool of themselves and have sex in the first bedroom available, careless of the fact that you may hear them while sipping your drink? Freaky Brits!