On returning from Barcelona, I set my sights on making the move, and pouring all my energy into searching for a position in Spain. I wasn’t too concerned about the field, but more the opportunity to relocate, and of course, finally being able to use my languages.
My days now consisted of listening to the Gypsy Kings on repeat and scrolling the LinkedIn job app like a woman possessed. Any role that caught my eye was immediately applied to. It was going to happen.
Beautiful Barcelona: the decision-maker.
Reaching the end of the year, Christmas came round, and I was happy to spend it at home. There are lots of aspects about the English winter that I don’t love (okay, I detest). However, I must admit that despite the intense commercialisation and overbearing pressure to succumb to the (bloody expensive) festive spirit, nothing really compares to being in your new fluffy jammies, sat by the Christmas tree, and sipping on Bucks Fizz at 7 am, surrounded by a (dis)array of Quality Street wrappers. Heating’s on, Mum’s busy preparing breakfast and you’re already wolfing down your second mince pie of the day. Jingle Bells plays softly in the background as Dad (in Santa hat) hovers over with the big black bin-liner, waiting for my sister to tear open ‘just one more’ of her presents before we eat. And all the while, it’s miserable, cold and wet outside. I live for Christmas morning at home.
Then follows the week of the withdrawn.
What day is it? Who knows? Is the year over yet? Are there anymore turkey sandwiches? Do we take the Christmas lights down? How am I working today but not tomorrow? Wait – then I have another day off next week – oh my god is it still December? Someone fetch a calendar! NOT THE ADVENT ONE !!
Wooly hats always go down a treat in this household
And so ensued the madness; everyone at work was in a slight post-roast slumber, walking around in a sugar-induced daze and making lots of chat about what St Nick had dropped in their stockings this year. I myself was in a bit of a festive limbo, but still going hard at work on every ‘Apply’ button I saw. Keen to make 2016 my year, (pretend you haven’t heard that before) I felt like seeing out the year with a little celebration; even though I’d learnt London living wasn’t for me, 2015 was still a success-story; I had graduated, managed to hold a proper job in a respectful company, and even had more than a tenner in my savings account (also had enough spare to buy mum a new kettle!). I was getting there. So I fancied celebrating these little milestones/victories with a couple of my nearest and dearest; it seemed like the perfect opportunity to go down to Pompey again and visit Joe and Xav.
My lovely friends and former Fort-fun flatmates were happily residing by the seaside and still enjoying the benefits of Portsmouth life, sans dissertation – all of our fave student hangouts, and none of the lectures. It had been for what felt like forever since I’d seen them both and even longer since I’d strolled along the streets of Southsea, so I was very much looking forward to it. As was Dobby.
“Wait are you going for new years? Oh I wish I could come!”
“Why don’t you?”
“Ooh…Should I?”
She was back from Barcelona to celebrate Christmas with the fam, and so decided to join me for what was to be a lovely reunion.
Pumped from the excitement of the grand get-together, wine, and lots of cheese (the key to a long-lasting friendship) we saw in the new year at Joe and Xav’s pad, Bieber in the background (please read the next sentence before judgement), second bottle of cheap Merlot down, and half-way through an intense board game (the fun kind, that involves terrible attempts at charades and lots of French people shouting).
He’s so handsome what’s his name? – Xavier, it’s Xavier.
Sweethearts
You will always find me in the kitchen at parties
NYE ’15
Midnight had passed and we’d gotten to that weird part of the evening/early hours where the conversation becomes all about reminiscing and recalling fads, or in this case, ads from the past, “Do you remember Von Dutch caps?” “As clearly as I remember mesh t-shirts; with regret.”
An half-eaten box of Jaffa cakes on the side sparked a memory which made it impossible to resist acting out the whole 90s advert – YOU KNOW THE ONE. This quickly became the theme of the night, and as we did a circuit of Portsmouth pubs before heading back home (via kebab shop), screams could be heard of ‘PLEINE LUNE’ ‘DEMI LUNE’ and of course ‘TOTAL ECLIPSE’ – those screams mainly coming from myself.
Obviously on a massive NEW YEAR NEW ME high, I was in a state of merry elation, and a call from my best friend could only make this better; turns out Joshua was in the same booze fueled stupor, only he was celebrating miles away, in the middle of the Spanish capital, with his boss and some colleagues. A lovely drunken exchange ensued; there were laughs, ‘Happy new year!’s, ‘I miss you’s and excited commentary of our nights up until now. Just as we were about to end the call, I send Josh my love and tell him *in jest* “let me know if they have any vacancies”.
What followed was a jokey exchange with his boss on speaker phone in a sort of interview role play, which we all laughed about the next day, until, it turns out, it was kind of for real.
kebab queens<3
I woke up on the boys’ blow up mattress the next day; “What a night” “Did we get Dominoes? If not, why not?” “Can we watch Frozen?” – All the things one contemplates the morning after the night before.
Joshua was video-calling me. I had my favourite doggy pijamas on and my hair was what could only be described as a rough looking bird’s nest.
“Sam they want to interview you.”
“Josh what”
“I know”
“But…”
So the following Monday, I had my interview.
Hours before I’d been shouting in French about full moons, and now sitting there in fluffy socks and 8 year old pijamas, everything was possibly about to change.
London. Blighty. The Big Smoke. And the place I will always call home.
As much as I whine and moan (comes with the territory) about the horrendous weather, traffic, doom, gloom and to top it all off, the extortionate cost of living we have to endure, I will always love my city. It can be grey, gritty and at times not the friendliest of places, but it has that certain special something that no other city has; there is just none other quite like it.
Living in the ‘burbs for most of my life meant that the illusion of going ‘up-town’ was still very much a thing – we were a 25 minute train-ride away, so it was close, but we still reaped the benefits of town tranquility that comes with bordering the Kentish countryside.
Coming home for Easter and Christmas during my university days was always fun, and going into the city for the day (or boozy night-out) was always a thrill.
Working in London left me with mixed feelings.
For the love of God please DO NOT STAND ON THE LEFT
As mentioned in my previous post, the daily commute had gotten me down a tad, and going out for a couple of post-work drinkies was becoming less and less enjoyable because of this rat-race lifestyle.
The trudge from Southeast London to East London everyday (put into perspective is no matter of distance at all), added at least a couple of extra hours onto my working day, and as a result, I took to looking for distractions, so the week would go by quicker, as sad as it sounds.
Again, I wasn’t the only one.
“I’m off to Pompey this weekend for a flat reunion, then next weekend I’m going out-out with the lot from home, then the week after we have team drinks, so I think I’m all good for this month. And of course in between that we have our lovely weekly catch-ups (booze-ups).”
Porgeous and I were always trying to make the most of our weekends (and general space outside of working hours), because:
It gave us something to look forward to, and
Frankly if we didn’t, my life would have just been spreadsheets and staring at the back of a stranger’s head on the train.
We were are young, we finally had a bit of extra dosh to enjoy, and we were determined to find the time to do so. So we did. And what fun we had.
Did someone say happy hour?
Hangout
As we were welcomed into the week with Mojito Mondays, Tequila Fridays ushered us into the weekend with a not so gentle push, and lots of chat of Italian days in the sun and the trifles of London-living so far. A few Fridays of the month, we’d meet up with our fabulous Clare after work, another Modena darling, who had a flair for languages and the unbelievable skill of making a chilled cocktail or two turn into tequila debauchery and an unintentional Zoo Bar fiesta. I couldn’t (still can’t) say no to the girl.
The working week was long, but Chiquitos opened its doors to us (almost) every Friday, with it’s ridiculously tasty garlic bread, latino vibes and strong (the best kind) mixers. It provided as a welcoming refuge from the reality of the adult lives we were now living. A couple of drinks in and we’d already be talking about the places we used to go, the people we’d met on the way and how much we were in love with the continental way of doing things. Oh, how we wished for sunshine and longed for Europop-trash blaring on our radios once more!
A few colourful beverages later and we were falling over ourselves laughing, it was just like our pre-drinks back in the day, only we’d swapped our backdrop for Friday night Leicester Square, which was now AT FULL BUZZ. It was around this time that I’d check my phone and realise how close to 12 it was, which normally meant me having to hastily leave then and there to catch the very last train home.
“You can stay at mine Sam, my Grandma’s house is like a twenty minute walk from here”
She said this every time, and every time I’d find myself waking up in Baker St the next morning, gossiping with Clare over a sugary cuppa and chuckling over laughs we’d all had in Chiquitos the night before. And I loved it. London can be so fun when you don’t have to make like Cinderella and flee the bar before midnight.
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As surprising as it might sound, I also enjoyed London in the daytime! Weekends are gold-dust. I don’t think this is just applicable to my working life at the time, but in general. Whatever the job, wherever you are – Free time is ME time. For myself, it was a good opportunity to spend some time with the family, who I only saw during the week when I was crabby/stuffing my face with a cereal bar as I hurried to get out the door. It was also a good excuse to enjoy the city outside of the rush hour. And when it wasn’t raining, it was a rather pleasant place to be.
For instance, one of my favourite spots in the city, despite being an obvious choice for tourists, is Covent Garden. Lined with street performers and crowds giving it the old OOOOH AHHHH, it may come as a surprise that this busy patch of London is actually right up my street – and it stands for everything I love. In the spring/summer at least. Windy streets leading up to the open piazza, a beautifully restored market, and a multitude of delightful (some extremely fancy) restaurants and bars, that on a sunny day, extend their invitation further by placing alluring seats outside. Just irresistible. Anything al fresco on a half-decent day and I’m sold.
And that was just one of many pretty places in the city I liked to frequent. Exploring eateries mainly; that was my weekends covered. During the week, in between reading my books on the train and drinking umpteen cups of tea at the office (not a complaint, remember, there’s no team without tea), I set my Wednesdays aside for a midweek Italian meal with the Tripod. Georgina and Lacy are my two oldest and best friends, and even though all three of us have taken very different vocational paths in life, (animals, hospitals, banks), it has made our friendship all the more interesting.
Welcome to Neal’s Yard, Covent Garden, adding a splash of colour to the often monochromatic London.
I would arrive at our favourite local eatery, La Cantina, umbrella normally in hand, to find Georgina sat at our table (we were regulars), ready for confirmation to order the bottle of Rose. A nod from the door indicated YES. Lacy also worked in the city, and we would normally arrive around the same time, ready to update Georgina on the state of the rail service that day. She in turn would share with us an outlandish but one hundred percent true story about her working day, involving angry kittens, scratches, and on one particularly crazy day, snakes.
We would update each other on our weeks, how it was all going, but not just that; we’d discuss our aspirations, our long and short-term goals, and how, or rather what we were doing in terms of reaching them. We would build each other up, celebrate each others successes, those achievements big and small, and provide the laughs and pick me ups (and obviously tea too) when things weren’t going so well.
I do remember one Wednesday in particular, and we’d all had just about enough. This tripod meeting was essential. Tomaso, the manager at the time, made sure we had our table, and at this point, he didn’t even have to ask. Either he knew us too well, or our faces said it all. Two minutes after we’d taken our seats, the Rosé found her place at the table too.
The first sip helped release stress which had accumulated throughout the day, and after taking our turns to rant it out, we shared our concerns, offered suggestions, and munched over what could be done to make things better. The food was fantastic, and came second only to the company, which was always first-class. We usually chatted for going on twenty minutes, all the while holding onto our menus, pretending we were going to order something other than our usual choice. Mussels to start, followed by a deceiving serving of spaghetti ai gamberetti , another bottle of rosé, and of course, a helpful portion of homemade tiramisu.
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Dinner down the local Italian every week with a couple of old friends may sound tediously conventional to some – on the contrary, these evenings were anything but. There were cackles, insanely descriptive and animated storytelling and the odd cheeky reference to days of Yore (aka primary school). These nights gave me such pleasure, especially when the working week made it more difficult to fit in gym nights, and quick pints, let alone a meaningful dinner out with friends.
We’d gotten onto the topic of my life’s purpose.
“What do you want to do then Sammy?”
“I really miss living abroad.”
“Are you thinking of leaving the UK again?”
“Yes.”
Every time I said it out aloud, the possibility became more real, and the girls only spurred me on to try and turn the idea into an actual plan. My problem was that I was more theory than practice.
Fed up with London, I had previously booked a ticket to visit Ali, my girl from Galicia, who was currently studying for a Masters in Barcelona. Since I’d started my Canary Wharf career I’d not had a holiday, save for a sweet weekend away in Pompey, and I felt like it was needed. A break – from work, the grey surroundings, and my own ranting; and also an opportunity to see what life might be like should I choose to go ahead with my **dream**.
Carry-on case packed, out-of-office email set, off I went to Barca.
When I came back, it had been decided. The job search had actively begun, and Spain was the destination once more.
I’d found my motivation.
And to think, four days in the sunshine was all it took.
November 4th 2015: Of all the days when it’s pissing it down and there’s a strike, my umbrella decides to suddenly break, and crumple, with my head trapped inside GOOD MORNING
This is an extract from ‘Life of Sam’ during the post-graduation chapter. Going on from my last blog post, I had returned from Erasmus, I had s t r u g g l e d through the everlasting sentence that was final year and somehow had come out on the other end, all be it scarred (from essay writing), but in tact (corner shop wine) and ready to be unleashed on the working world; language degree in hand, LinkedIn profile shiny and updated.
After going through a little bit of a funny limbo period (mini-breakdown), believe it or not, I finally joined the 9-5 army.
Through some kind of miracle (a good network and lots of optimism), I had found myself employed, and not just in any old position, but in one working for a global investment bank – I had my foot in the door of the finance sector. Plot twist, am i right?
Those of you who knew me before my stint in Canary Wharf will know that numbers were not exactly my forte (think calculation lady meme) and money, well, it was an interest – but mainly when it came down to spending it. Still true. On telling my friends that I was to start a new job they congratulated me with glee, and on discovering the position, they reacted with slight confusion, a look that said ‘but…why finance?’ and finally the old ‘fair enough’ acceptance nod.
Bright-eyed and bushy tailed
I myself was R E A D Y to work and to take on all the things that came with it (a wage, mainly); nevertheless, I did start to feel a small pang of self-doubt running up to my first day, and I must admit that I did arrive an hour early for my orientation session – overly keen or extremely nervous, you decide.
Being shown to my assigned floor, I was led through the open office, past various teams belonging to different departments. It felt corporate and intimidating and basically everything I wasn’t familiar with, and suddenly I felt like a child pretending to be an adult, wearing grown-up work clothes which didn’t quite fit right.
Oh my God they’re going to know I’m a phoney aren’t they? They’ll know I nearly failed maths A-level; this is a nightmare – quick how do I get back to the lifts, before I introduce myself to people I will definitely have to hide from for the rest of my working days?!
Anxiety it seems was a big factor for me that morning.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried so much. And everytime I find myself in a similar situation, i.e. embarking on something new, I try to remind myself of how I felt that very morning, and how it all seems so silly now, in retrospect.
I was actually incredibly lucky to have been part of the team I was assigned to. Everyone was down-to-Earth, we had each other’s backs with tasks, and the thing I enjoyed the most was, we had a laugh. Lots of them in fact. Also we had a lovely Friday morning tradition of going downstairs for breakfast together, which I do really miss (I ended up with maple syrup on my keyboard once but I don’t think anyone found out, so it’s all good). Being part of this little unit made a world of difference, and the work I was doing itself was new, mostly unfamiliar, but actually very interesting.
Playground
Fast forward a few months to when I wrote that status. It was a rainy day, and the weather matched my mood entirely. I was more confident in my work-space and had more or less gathered what went where and who did what (also when the best time to take lunch was to avoid the herds), and yet, something was not quite right.
I had an itch.
My Dad used to work uptown back in the day, and was a regular commuter – he warned me of being trapped by the city when I was younger.
“What do you mean trapped??”
“Sam, I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out there, don’t get stuck. I used to work in the city and I’d see the same faces, on the same train, every morning, every evening, same carriages – same seat sometimes. I left London for a while after that and came back to a city job 10 years later.
There they were – same train, same carriage, same seats. Older faces”
I thought he was exaggerating slightly, and being a tad melodramatic, but there you go.
Wasn’t til that day I got caught up (quite literally) in my umbrella, that I understood what he really meant. I liked my job and I didn’t really have much of a plan before starting it, but by GOD I HATED THE JOURNEY. I HATED IT SO DAMN MUCH.
Day to day
Everyday was the same, the same grey day, the same waiting for the SouthEastern train that was ALWAYS delayed and that was more than likely missing 3 of it’s original 8 carriages. I would pick up a copy of the Metro everyday, and wait at the same point on the platform, which I knew now for certain, was where the train doors belonging to the fourth carriage would open. I would board and find the most convenient seat available (not too close to the doors that you end up with a bag in your face, or the jealous stares of fellow commuters; and not too far down the carriage that you became trapped when it came time to get off). I would get to my desk exactly 30 minutes before I was required to start, and would return home almost two hours after leaving it in the evening. This was not through choice – London’s transport system had well and truly screwed me over, and I was done, SO done.
The commuting started to feel like work itself – everyone was very professional and elegant in their suits and shiny shoes, until it came to train-time and the rules of etiquette no longer applied. In addition to the delays and constant broken promises (LIIIIIESS) delivered by SouthEastern, we also had to endure the barging, sweaty pits, aggressive nudging, elbows to the face, and absolute worst; pushing IN FRONT OF ME IN THE LINE- WHAT KIND OF MONSTER DISRESPECTS THE QUEUING SYSTEM?!
Tolerating this day to day got me riled; it didn’t take long before I decided some things just weren’t worth it. I started hanging around Canary Wharf after work, just to avoid getting on the busiest train home – when I got bored of that, I started going up to central to entertain myself for a few hours before taking the safe and stress-free train home (there was even the possibility of nabbing a seat!) I didn’t want to start spending too much on clothes or make-up I didn’t need any more of (staff had started to recognize me in the local Zara), and so one evening I found myself in a bookstore on my way to Charring Cross. It was so calm – a hidden cove of peace away from the turmoil that was my daily route home.
Down to the grind
Having still been a recent graduate, supposedly I should have been in a job which required the skills my degree entailed, and even though I felt okay in my position and very happy and grateful in terms of the experience on my CV, part of me felt a little twang of disappointment as I browsed the ‘Foreign Language’ section of the bookshop. The Spanish section called out to me, and proved hard to leave. Half an hour later and twenty or so pounds shorter, I bobbed along to the station – being a huge book worm at heart, and having the opportunity to go back to what I loved studying just gave me that extra spring in my step. I’ll stop being cheesy in the next paragraph. Apologies.
Reading, not from a tablet/mobile phone/kindle/digital thingymajig, but from a good old hardback, paper page turner, combined with a stable set of earphones, is without a doubt the best way to escape the reality of your morning commute (also the number one reason for almost missing your stop). I was engrossed in these new books I had recently picked up, and no longer felt the gloom that hovered over me at the beginning of every working day, or at least, not as much. I had really missed reading in Spanish, and I was a little bummed that getting through the first few passages proved more difficult than it should’ve been.
I was, it would seem, out of practice. It made me question a few things.
“How could this happen? I can speak Spanish. I was there only five months ago (a pre-results getaway to the good ole South). Have I lost it? Wait. What am I doing?”
I shared my thoughts with Porgeous on one of our Monday mojito nights (the cocktail deals and cheap calamari were too good to refuse, it literally got us through til Wednesday).
“I miss Erasmus. It is just so grey here.” *sips crushed sugar from the bottom of mojito* “Sam can we go back? Do you remember those cocktails in Modena?” *both pause for a moment and sigh* “Carys told me she went to the beach last month – OCTOBER.”
Beaming banking babes
With a few of our nearest and dearest friends living abroad, we were both suffering from extreme FOMO, and jealousy – we were not living our best lives in the sun, nor using our languages while doing it. It seemed to become a running theme; loving the London lifestyle and finally having money to enjoy, well, life; but also constantly reminiscing about the Mediterranean times that were and having those sweet memories be cut short because we had to run for the last train home.
We took a last swig at the icy remnants of our mojitos before wrapping up in ALL of the layers, bracing ourselves for the outside. We waddled towards the station arm in arm, battling against the wind, before parting ways with a big hug and a sigh.
‘Same time next week?’
‘Of COURSE’
On the train home a few things kept running through my mind. Like they always do on a weeknight journey home.
‘Oh god I really hope I’ll get home soon. Okay it’s fine, at this rate after I’ve showered, gotten into pjs (and maybe nibbled on a bit of leftover dins) I should be in bed by 11. 11.30 max. Ooh that’s late… Well it’s not midnight, I’ll be fine. I didn’t drink too much… hmm, better drink loads of water before bed, I don’t want a headache in the morning…’
Then I paused.
What was wrong with me. I hated this feeling. I couldn’t even enjoy a few drinks after work with my friend.
And it seems that Porgeous was sharing my sentiments too.
NEW WHATSAPP MESSAGE RECEIVED.
‘On the tube but it’s delayed and someone definitely just let off a stinker in this carriage. I wish we could have cocktails every night. I miss our Erasmus lives.’
Venice at night was completely different, and it made me love it all the more. The element of prettiness was still very much there, only it became even more romantic in a way, and was just as inviting. I couldn’t for the life of me tell you whereabouts our little evening stroll had taken us, but it most probably included the streets which only hours before, we were barging our way through.
In preparation for our wait-out in Bologna, we sought out a mini supermarket for snacks and fizzy drinks (this was also in preparation for the looming hangover, which we knew was most definitely coming for us at some point).
After this, believe it or not, we got a bit peckish.
Strolling with plastic bags in hand and weary yet curious looks on our faces, we found ourselves in a charming romantically-lit eatery (after the coin/eyeliner incident there was no shame to be had in our scraggly and by no means graceful appearance). We just wanted a little something (cheap, we wanted CHEAP), so looking at the menu we decided a litre carafe of white wine (house, obvs) and a cheese board (to share) would be most suitable.
The waiter gathered we weren’t his average diners.
“Maybe some bread too” Dobby chimed in.
So I lied about the three-part story thing. Whoops.
“Hello my darling, are you busy? Are you at work? Not working on that blog post though are you?-
Sam if you need to do a fourth blog post then just do it”
Lovely (not to mention sassy) Casalooch had a good point. So here we are. The actual *final* part to our little Italian adventure…
Tick Tock.
We had a couple of hours til the train was due (missing this one was not an option) and so we found ourselves being very, VERY aware of the time, so agreed to allow 40 minutes to walk from chosen eatery to the station (it was something which could be done in 15 but we were not. about. taking. chances. This way of thinking had led us down the wrong pasta-laden path in the first place.
However when the plethora of cheeses arrived (and oh my, was it something to behold), it was hard not to unwind a little, and back in the bubble we were.
“Oh my GOD LOOK AT ALL OF THEEEEESE”
Dobby exclaimed as the waiter walked away, twiddling her little fingers with glee. She went to pinch a piece of the closest cheddar before I moved to stop her.
“HOLD UP.”
Her hand hovered over the plate as her face turned to one of confusion. I raised my glass (which I admit, I had got a bit excited about and poured in well over what was necessary):
“Here’s to trying to make it on time, failing…and wine”
“Cheers to that Badger!”
**enthusiastic clink and slight spillage onto cheese platter**
I also forgot to mention the variety of chutneys (Yes, chutneys) that had accompanied our cheesy platter. (Please see below and also bear in mind there was more cheese but we ate it; priorities)
“I know it sounds bad…”
“You’re glad we missed it too, huh?”
“YES!” exclaimed Dobby.
We roared with laughter and swayed a little in our chairs.
“What a wonderful way to end our Erasmus”
“Not over yet” I paused. “We still have to get back home.”
HAHAHAHAHA *chortle* *snort* *nervous chuckle*
But in all seriousness (jokes and being temporarily stuck aside) this was to be considered another story we were more than happy to add to our list of adventures enjoyed over the past year.
End of an era
Erasmus was almost over and the sense of impending doom aka final year and dissertations was becoming increasingly real. The days of walking out the front door with nothing but that feeling of sheer freedom and uncertainty over what was going to happen; of being the stranger in a foreign land; of making little (mostly culinary) discoveries everyday, was soon to be over. Complete spontaneity and religiously checking Ryanair for (absolutely ridiculous) offers was soon to be replaced for a year of being grounded, responsibility, and of conforming to the people we were before the program began.
But here lied the problem – we were no longer these people; nor did we want to be.
Being the clueless foreigner had its disadvantages, yes, and I am more aware than anyone of how very much I just loved to moan about it. Truth was, I didn’t want to go back to the norm, to reality and to a planned out schedule I was already so familiar with. No part of me held that desire. I didn’t want to go back at all.
My friends and I were aware of our predicament, and before we could learn to come to terms with what was happening and to accept it, we had to go through the phase of denial. Technically Erasmus was still a thing until we touched down on British soil. So here we were, not in the UK, but in Venice, Dobby and myself making the very most of our final days of freedom. And we made it count.
Step 1 in overcoming the Erasmus blues is going on holiday again and again and again #Erasmus2013
Prince Charming and the Boozy Bread
Dobby took another sip (gulp) and I glanced at the partially demolished Camembert. We’d been knocking back the vino (as per) and most of all, reminiscing about the times we’d shared together; our ups and downs, the impressive characters we’d met along the way and the places we were already itching to go back to.
The waiter hollered over to our table as we sat in a state of profound recollection, the kind that leaves your eyes glazing over a little.
Before Dobby could ask, he placed upon the table a newly filled basket of bread.
“So where are you from?”
He turned out to be a chatty chappy and was seemingly intrigued by our love of laughter, complementary table bread and sharing of cheese platters.
Yes, that’s how fast I grabbed the table bread’n’cheese
As I answered him in my Pidgin Prosecco-fueled Italian, he proceeded to ask more questions, increasingly curious of our story. our friendship, and it appears, our plans for the rest of the evening.
Dobby made a cheeky smirk as the waiter asked what we were doing after dinner. Unfortunately for him, we did not have plans to accompany him to the disco, and we politely declined, explaining that being the modern Cinderellas we were, we had a train to catch, and incidentally it would be leaving at midnight.
“Oh that is such a shame, why don’t you stay longer in Venice?”
We laughed and rolled our eyes jokingly, shrugging it off and giving him the “What can you do, ay?” look, before he walked away, leaving us to share a giggle or two and finish off the wine.
He did have a point though, it would be a shame to leave.
*heavy sigh*
“I don’t want this to ever end.”
Our unplanned night and unexpected extension of our stay in Venice had somehow become representative of our entire Year Abroad experience. And it was ending, all too soon.
The caraff was down to its last drop and it was getting time to make our way back (at tortoise pace).
“Grazie mille” we slurred as we paid for our singular plate and litre of strong wine.
Pretty sure we were the last out and the restaurant closed soon after, but the staff seemed very happy to be entertained by two English girls, very broken Italian, and loud (unconsciously so) laughter. That, or they were happy to see us go. Probably the latter, on reflection.
Not forgetting our groceries (snacks, just snacks), we marched onwards to the train station, with purpose, somehow with this mindset believing it would get us there quicker.
“We’re going to make it, don’t worry”
“Yup, we just need to stick to the plan”
Asking for a bread (not wine) refill
The Return Journey 2.0
We arrived at Santa Lucia well within time (shock) but even so, that failed to put our nerves at ease. As soon as the announcement was made and the train had pulled into the platform, we were on it, despite the fact it wasn’t due to leave for a good while.
It was one of those ‘Hogwarts Express’ type trains – you know the ones- and so we settled into our assigned carriage, cozy, and more importantly, on our way. Funnily enough, we found ourselves sharing the carriage with a delightful American couple (with Italian roots of course), who were in the middle of their tour of the country, as it were.
“Oh it’s so beautiful there, you have to go – we’re on our way to Naples – I got family there”
“Yes, we love it, the food as well…”
The conversation went onto our reason for being there, and recounting our Erasmus tales. Seeing stranger’s reactions, I came to the realisation that our year was not over *cheese* because we’d always have these memories.
I don’t believe in living in the past, but writing about our experiences does make me relive them, and for me it’s a reminder that more memories are to be made, that these places which served as a backdrop for our stories, are waiting for us to visit again.
Ferrara: the point of no return
The train pulled into Ferrara and both of us, being slightly anxious, rule-abiding Brits at heart (this is not to say boring), decided it best to leave the carriage at this point, and dawdle about in the passageway before the train arrived at Bologna. This was a good plan, until we opened the door to find a lot of other people doing the same thing (they probably had valid tickets though). Despite it being super late (or arguably early) the passage was rather rammed. Incidentally this worked out for the best. No ticket inspector in sight (as if they could be bothered at this time and in these conditions anyway), so no need to hide in a teeny tiny toilet for half an hour. Yay! At this stage of the day, it was about celebrating all wins, big and small.
Walking out of Bologna station was a relief. We were nearly there, just 3 hours to go… Bologna is a city that in my time as a student in Modena, I had visited on occasions, and very much enjoyed; but I think it’s fair to say that the station, especially at night, was ugly, dangerous, and to be avoided if possible. Not wanting to add trouble to our already lengthy adventure, we made tracks for Piazza Verdi, a square known for its student frequenters, and at this time of night, I was counting on stragglers and late party-goers to be populating the area.
They weren’t. Well, not as many as I would have liked anyway.
The square felt kind of empty and the exact opposite of ‘buzzing’ without the crowds of young people and cheap beer about. Not that we were exactly in the mood to party…
Bologna
“Dorito?”
“YASSS OMG DO WE HAVE DIP”
“Can wine give you the munchies?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so?” **rips open packet of something sugar-based and chocolate smothered**
What. A. Day.
We were over the whole ‘adventure’ thing.
As funny as our circumstance was, the lingering strangers and empty plastic cups left in the square had started to give us a sense of uneasiness; we craved the feeling of being under a duvet and within four walls, with a fridge at our disposal and without the dependency on a train timetable.
We continued to eat as we exited the square – on the move we felt a bit safer, and the bars that were open at least meant other people were out and about. It wasn’t bad actually, there were even a few pizza places open – ah Italy how I miss you so!
Walking towards the station, we decided to rest at a bus stop, as it was close, but not too close, if you catch my drift. We just had to wait it out.
The train to Modena was where I found my inner peace. That peace you get from drinking a tea after a long day at the office, or when you hand in an essay you’ve been working on all night, or when you take off your heels after an intense dance-off. You know what I mean?
Back to the cave
Walking from the station to my house was bizarre. It was morning. Not ‘ooh look the dawn is rising’ morning, but actual MORNING time. Birds singing, bakers baking, and weary travellers finding there way home. How did it happen?
Who cares.
We bought two pastries (now was as good a time as any to scoff them down) and on arriving at my humble abode, closed the bedroom shutters completely; total darkness, how welcome you were.
Dobby collapsed onto the already deflating air mattress.
“Don’t wake me up until it’s dark again; I could sleep forever”
“Yeh me too, I can’t even grasp what yesterday was… ”
*Dobby turns to sleep*
“…Dya fancy a cuppa?”
“Ooh yeah go on then!”
And so it ended as it began, two erratic and unstable minds, bonding over tea.
